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I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. # 

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{UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 




MY father's house. Page 23. 



HOIE AID HEAVEN: 



./Z3/.(^ 



A BOOK OF 



THOUGHTS AND SKETCHES. 



BY 



MRS. M. E. M. SANGSTER. 




PUBLISHED BY THE 

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 

28 CORNHILL, BOSTON. 



/ n r 



yfi 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 

THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 

In tlie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
Massachusetts. 



PREFACE. 



The following pages were written at intervals, 
during several busy years. If the thoughts which 
they contain make one earthly home the happier, 
or lead one household to look up in faith and love 
to that "holy city, new Jerusalem," which the 
dearest of the apostles saw "coming down from 
God out of heaven," I shall be glad and grateful. 
For what can we wish for the Christian's home, 
more than that it be a preparation for, and an em- 
blem of, that better place, the Father's house, where 
our Intercessor now stands, where wait for us the 
beloved ones who once made our pathway bright, 
where we hope ere long to join the great company 
of the redeemed? 

Till that time comes, let " Heaven and Home " be 
talismanic sounds, fraught with power to make us 
braver, stronger, and purer, as we follow on to 
know the Lord. 

M. E. M. 



CONTENTS. 



I. THE AGED MOTHER, . . . . , . 7 

II. WHOM NOT HAYING SEEN WE LOVE, . 15 

III. TO-DAY, .18 

IV. SHE LOVED MUCH, . . . . *. . 19 
V. TAIvE HOLD OF MY HAND, .... 21 

VI. MY FATHER'S HOUSE, 23 

VII. ALL NIGHT IN PRAYER, 25 

Vni. MORNING, 28 

IX. SHOW ME THYSELF, .31 

X. I DWELL WITH MINE OWN, .... 33 

XI. LOVE NOT THE WORLD, 35 

Xn. ROCKING THE CRADLE, 37 

XIII. I AM WITH THEE ALWAYS, .... 38 

XIV. I KNOW THY WORKS, 40 

XV. FOR EVER WITH THE LORD, .... 43 

XVr. LITTLE CARES, 46 

XVII. RIGHT SHALL CONQUER, 49 

XVII. OUR BEST FRIEND, 52 

XIX. NO MATTER WHEN, BUT HOW, ... 55 

XX. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, 58 

XXI. ALONE IN THE DARK, 62 

XXII. THREE YEARS OLD, 64 

XXIII. UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORLD, ... 67 

XXIV. FROST-WORK, . 75 

XXV. THE CROSS, 78 

XXVI. COBWEBS FROM THE CEILING, ... 80 

XXVn. THE NINE O'CLOCK BELLS, .... 84 

XXVIII. DEATH OF AN OLD LADY, .... 88 

XXIX. ASPIRATIONS, 91 

XXX. RAINY DAYS, 93 

XXXI. UNCONSCIOUS HEROISM, 97 

XXXII. FAITH, 108 

XXXin. THE FIRST SNOW, 110 

XXXIV. COME TO JESUS, . . . . . . .113 

5 



CONTENTS, 



XXXV. A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT, . . ... .119 

XXXYl. THE SHINING SEAL, 121 

XXXVII. A LITTLE WHILE, 123 

XXXVIII. THE PET LAMB, 125 

XXXIX. NOTHING TO LIVE FOR, 128 

XL. FROM DAY TO DAY, 132 

XLI. SPRING AT PETERSBURG, .... 134 

XLII. BY THE WAYSIDE, 137 

XLIII. DON'T TELL MOTHER, 142 

XLIV. HOW HxVPPY I'LL BE, 145 

XLV. HUMILITY, 147 

XLVI. DO YOU READ YOUR BIBLE? .... 149 

XLVII. PEACE, 151 

XLVIII. ON SENDING A BELL TO INDIA, . . .154 

XLIX. ONWARD, 156 

L. WE ARE NOT OUR OWN, 158 

LI. LOVE ONE ANOTHER, . . . . .161 

LII. ASSURANCE, 164 

LIII. NO NIGHT THERE, 166 

LIV. APT TO TEACH ; PATIENT, . . . . 168 

LV. BOOKS IN THE HOUSE, 172 

LVI. TREASURES OF MEMORY, 176 

LVII. TRUST IN THE LORD, . . .* . . .178 

LVIII. THE BABY, 180 

LIX. OUR GREATEST NEED, . . . . . 185 

LX. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT, 189 

LXI. ANGELS UNAWARES, 192 

LXII. BLOSSOMS, 194 

LXIII. THE VEIL UPON THE WATERS, . . .197 

LXIV. MY TREASURES, 199 

LXV. BROKEN CHAINS, 201 

LXVI. A LESSON FROM THE BEES, .... 209 

LXVII. MY CLASS FOR JESUS, 211 

LXVIII. THE OTHER SIDE, 213 

LXIX. THE OLD MAN'S DEATH, ..... 215 
LXX. WHERE IS YOUR INFLUENCE? . . .217 

LXXI. THE LOCK OF HAIR, 219 

LXXII. EVENING SONG FOR TEACHERS' MEETING, 221 

LXXIII. DAYLIGHT IS GOING, 223 

LXXIV. WORK AND LOVE, 225 

LXXV. ONLY AN HOUR, 229 

LXXVI. POPLAR GROVE CHURCH, 232 

LXXVn. THE OLD CLOCK, 233 



fe! 



HOME AND HEAYEN. 
I. 

THE AGED MOTHER. 

AINTING and poetry have done tlieir best 
to perpetuate the beauty of the young 
mother. There is no lovelier sight in the 
world than a youthful matron, the rose of 
girlhood still flushing her cheek and the light 
of youth and happiness shining in her eyes, 
bending over her babe, soothing him to his quiet 
sleep, pillowing his head upon her loving 
breast. 

But a sacredness, a halo that does not belong 
to the other, pertains to the aged mother. 
Her hands, once white and dimpled, are with- 
ered now, and tremulous ; her step, once firm 
and elastic, is now feeble and uncertain ; her 



8 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

eyes are dim, and her voice quivering and low. 
She has borne the burden and heat of the day, 
and is now waiting amid the evening shadows 
for the voice of the Master, that shall bid her 
enter into rest. Years ago, one by one, her 
" bairns " came ; they were carried in her 
arms, they slept upon her heart. She sang 
their cradle songs, and soothed their cradle 
fears. She taught them to walk, and led them 
by the hand to God's house. As they grew on- 
ward and upward to man's and woman's estate, 
she was ever their counselor, and confidant, 
and friend. No wildness, nor sinfulness, nor 
coldness, nor bitterness, could weary her love 
or tire her constancy. No shameful ingratitude 
provoked from her lips the harsh word, or 
woke in her heart the angry thought. If sor- 
row found them, her sympathy helped them to 
bear the grief; if joy was their portion, her 
smile gave new zest to their pleasure. 

As the children grew up, they gathered to 
themselves new associates and formed new ties. 
One after another the sons took each a maiden 
to wife, bringing to the mother a new daughter 



THE AGED MOTHER. 



to love and cherish ; yet seeming to her but to 
have taken themselves away. One after an- 
other the daughters went to other homes, to 
live the lessons their mother had taught them 
by their husbands' hearthstones. By and by 
there was no own child left for the mother, wid- 
owed and lonely, to love. Grave, stately men, 
and fair, lovely women, clustered round her, 
showing her much tenderness and devotion ; 
and merry little grandchildren clung to and ca- 
ressed her, renewing to her her days of youth ; 
but her own beloved children had grown away, 
and she was wont to think with a strange 
pleasure of the darlings who had gone from her 
years ago to the home of the blessed. Some- 
times, just at dusk, a golden head would flash 
through the shadows, a soft foot would tiptoe 
to her side, and a pair of velvet eyes would gaze 
into hers. Then somebody would bustle in, 
drawing curtains and lighting lamps, and pity- 
ing mother, who had been alone so long, 
never knowing she had had in the twilight 
a beautiful vision of angels. All the evening 
there would be a new light on the fair, aged 



10 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

face, a new happiness on the gentle brow ; and 
none would know how the actual world was 
brightened for the dweller in it by the sweet- 
ness of the ideal. 

Oh ! when our little ones are taken from us 
to the better land, when our scalding tears 
drop as we robe the cold form for the grave, 
when we see the coffin shut, and hear the dull 
thud of the earth as it falls on the casket that 
hides our precious dust, it seems as if our sun 
had gone down for ever, and all comfort had 
fled from our lives. Peace, foolish heart ! God 
knows thy yearning and thy loss ; he knows 
the aching and the void, and all the weary reacli- 
ing of the spirit through the dark to find out 
his purposes. As Cowper said, — 

" His purposes -will ripen fast. 
Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste. 
But sweet shall be the flower. ' ' 

By and by, time shall sow the fresh sod over 
thy darling's grave with emerald verdure and 
star-eyed daisies, and into thy wounded spirit 
the Comforter shall drop the balm that hath 



THE AGED MOTHER. 11 

healing in its touch. It will be sweet, when sor- 
rows and trials come to thy other children, to 
know that thou hast one far out of sorrow's 
way, far out of harm's way, far from strife, 
and sickness, and danger, even where God hath 
wiped all tears from every eye. And as age 
creeps over thee, and the twilight of second 
childhood throws round thee its mystic veil, 
thou shalt have precious hours with the little 
one that the Father hath kept for thee ; a child, 
with the beautiful memories and winning ways 
of babyhood, for all thy life. 

Dr. Todd has spoken feelingly of the close- 
ness of the bond between a father and daugh- 
ter. Equally strong and sacred is that which 
unites mother and son. The mother loves to 
lean on the arm of her boy, and the boy, if he 
have a manly heart in his bosom, is proud to 
yield the support of his buoyant strength to the 
parent who spent hers so lavishly for him. 
And what a new grace is conferred on the gen- 
tleman — brave title, but sadly abused, and 
usurped by those who have no claim to it, wear- 
ing no gentleness upon their lives nor honor in 



12 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

their breasts — when we see him waiting witli 
deference and fond care on his mother ! 

There used to sit before me in church an 
aged lady, the mother of many children. It 
was beautiful to see how they gave her the most 
comfortable seat, adjusted the hassock for her 
feet, found her the place in the hymn-book, and 
helped her carefully down the church steps, at 
the close of the service. She was troubled with 
a cough, to alleviate which she usually carried 
with her a box of lozenges. One winter's morn- 
ing, her cough came on in church, annoy- 
ing her very much. One of her sons, seeing 
that she had forgotten the remedy that soothed 
her discomfort, quietly left the church, went 
home, and procured them. When he came 
back and slipped the little box into his moth- 
er's hand, I entered that man among my list 
of knights. I thought to myself, — 

" Nature puts forth her gentleman. 
And monarchs must give place." 

But a sober, second thought convinced me that 
I mistook. Nature, where she has had full 



THE AGED MOTHER. 13 

scope, produces not gentlemen, but monsters, 
like the King of Dahomey, or the Feejee Island- 
ers. It is sovereign grace that produces the 
peaceful, loving, self-denying spirit, thoughtful 
for others ; which makes men noble, and wo- 
men kind, and life worth the living. 

The Turks have a saying like this : " Wives 
die, we can replace them ; children die, others 
may be born unto us ; but who shall give us 
back our mother?" If thus the infidel prizes 
his mother, shall not we ? As the frost whitens 
her hair, as the breath of summer departs and 
she feels the chill blasts of winter, shall we not 
wrap her the closer in our arms of love, and 
hold her the nearer and dearer ? Is she petu- 
lant sometimes ? Son, daughter, be not impa- 
tient with her who was so patient with you. 
One cross, hasty word to a mother, — not seas of 
repentance shall wash it from your recollection. 
Give her reverential love, and teach your chil- 
dren that she is a precious treasure, to be ten- 
derly cared for and prized. 

Our Lord, on the cross, with a world's sins 
wringing the cry,'' Eloi,Eloi,lama sabachthani," 



14 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 



from his pale lips, bent down a look of pity on 
his mother, weeping beneath his feet. How 
beautiful his charge to John, '' Son, behold thy 
mother!" 




II. 

WHOM NOT HAVING SEEN, WE LOVE. 

)T is easy to love when eye meets eye, 
And the glance reveals the heart; 
When the flush on the cheek can the soul 
bespeak, 
And the lips in gladness part. 
There's a thrill of bliss in a loving kiss, 

And a spell in a kindly tone, 
And the spirit hath chains of tenderness 
To fetter and bind its own. 

But a hoher spell and a deeper joy 

From a purer fountain flow. 
When the soul sends higher its incense fire. 

And rests no more below; 
When the heart goes up to the gate of heaven, 

And bows before the throne. 
And, striking its harp for sins forgiven. 

Calls the Saviour all its own. 

15 



16 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Though we gaze not now on the lovely brow 

That felt for us the thorn, 
Though afar from home we pilgrims roam, 

And our feet with toil are worn ; 
Though we never have pressed that pierced hand, 

It is stretched our lives above, 
And we own His care in grateful prayer. 

Whom, having not seen, we love. 

We have felt him near for many a year, 

When at eve we bent the knee ; 
That mercy-breath, that glorious faith, 

Dear Saviour, came from thee. 
In the weary hour when Satan's power 

To tempt has tried our soul, 
Oh, the healing balm of the heavenly calm, 

With which he made us whole! 

When we stood beside the dying bed. 

And watched the loved one go. 
In the darkening hour we felt his power. 

As it hushed the waves of woe ; 
And over and through the grief we knew 

A stronger heart than ours, 
And arms of love that stretched fi'om above 

To comfort the weary hours. 



WHOM HAVING NOT SEEN, WE LOVE. 17 

And still, as we climb the hills of Time, 

And the lamps of earth grgw dim, 
We are hastening on, from faith to sight, 

We are pressing near to him; 
And away from idols of earthly mold. 

Enraptured we gaze above, 
And long to be where his arms enfold, 

Whom, having not seen, we love. 

2 



III. 

TO-DA Y, 

SINGLE sparkling drop 

Of love divine 
O'erflows my mortal cup ; 

To-day is mine! 

Mine all its fleeting hours, 

Its golden light; 
Mine, with my highest powers. 

Its scroll to write. 

Mine, ere its moments fly. 

To toil and pray; 
To lift mine eyes on high. 

This brief to-day ! 

Soon in the purple west 
Its beams shall cease ; 

Oh, happy in my breast 
To write it — Peace. 
18 




IV. 

SHE LOVED MUCH. 

^HAT a beautiful tribute to fall from the 
lips of the Master upon a sinful child 
of earth ! What a sweet reflection from 
the mirror of his ever-loving, ever-pity- 
ing heart ! 

Jesus had been journeying. Weary with the 
heat and dust of the way, he had turned aside to 
rest in the house of a Pharisee. Unmindful of 
the usages of Eastern hospitality, his entertainer 
gave him no water to wash his feet, no per- 
fumed oil to anoint his head, saluted him with 
no kiss. But while he tarried in the house of 
the churl, there stole timidly in, with tearful 
eyes and downcast look, a woman of Judaea. 
Bearing her alabaster box of very precious oint- 
ment, she knelt at his feet, and, as she poured it 
over them, mingled with lier tears, imprinted on 

19 



20 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

them many a kiss. And then she wiped them 
with the hair of her head, the long rich tresses 
that had been her pride in the days of youthful 
innocence. 

Jesus smiled upon her ; but the Pharisee who 
had bidden him was shocked that his guest 
should permit this close contact with one whom 
years of sin had made an outcast from her fellow- 
beings. The eye which penetrates all disguises 
saw his scornful thoughts, and the heart which 
yearned in pity over the erring and repentant 
prompted the Saviour's words, '^ Her sins, which 
are many, are forgiven, for she loved much ; but 
to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth lit- 
tle." 

Desponding, sin-stained soul, be this thy sur- 
est encouragement. Come to Jesus! Come 
now ! His arms are open. There is room in 
his infinite heart. Try to return in some 
small measure his wonderful love, that of you 
too it may be said, " She loved much." 



11 



V. 

TAKE HOLD OF MY HAND, 

'AKE hold of my hand !" cries the little 
one when she reaches a slippery place, or 
when something frightens her. With lit- 
tle fingers tightly clasped around the 
parent's hand, she steps cheerfully along, cling- 
ing the closer when the path is crowded or the 
way steep, and happy in the beautiful strength 
of childish faith. 

" Take hold of my hand ! " says the young 
convert, trembling in the ardor of his first love. 
Full well he knows that if he rely on strength 
of his own he will stumble and fall, but if the 
Master reach forth his hand he may walk with 
unwearied foot over the crested wave. No 
waters of strife, no winds of temptation, shall 
peril him, if he can but keep close to the Sav- 
iour. 

21 



22 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

" Take hold of my hand ! " falters the mo- 
ther, feeling all too weak for the responsibili- 
ties that throng in her path. Where shall she 
obtain strength to go bravely on in her mission ; 
where shall she find wisdom to fulfill its many 
duties, if she have not the constant sustaining 
presence of Him who bent from the cross with 
a word of comfort to his mother, standing deso- 
late and heart-broken at its foot ? 

" Take hold of my hand ! " whispers the aged 
one, tottering on through the shadows and 
snows of many years. As the lights of earth 
pale in the distance, and the dim eye strains 
forward to discern through the gloom the first 
glimmer of the heavenly home, the weary 
pilgrim cries out, even as the child to its par- 
ent, for the touch of the Saviour's hand. 

" E'en down to old age all my people shall prove 
My faithful, eternal, unchangeable love. 
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn. 
Like lambs they shall still on my bosom be borne." 

Jesus ! Friend and Elder Brother, when 
the night cometh, when the feet are weary, 
when the eyes are dim, " Take hold of my 
hand ! " 



VL 

MV FATHER'S HOUSE. 

fSEEK a home beyond the skies, where all 
is fair and bright, 
f Where not a single cloud of woe sweeps 
o'er the hills of light, 
"Where songs of joy for ever swell, and holy an- 
thems rise, 
And God's own hand hath wiped away each 
tear from sorrow's eyes. 

My way below may often be all shadowy and 

drear, 
For I am but a wanderer, a weary pilgrim 

here. 
My Father bids me journey on, though storms 

and tempests come. 
And never lay my sandals off, until I reach my 

home. 



24 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

I would not change my dusty robes, my pil- 
grim's staff and scrip, 

For all the cups of earthly bliss that worldlings 
love to sip : 

Far, far beyond their poisoned founts, life's flow- 
ing waters lie, 

And I shall quench my thirst in them, when I 
am called on high. 

Though trials meet me in the path, and loved 

ones leave my side. 
And bitter grief the tender chords of love and 

faith divide. 
Though, watching by the couch of pain, my 

heart grows sick and sad, 
I know that in my Father's house I'll be for 

ever glad. 

Still faithful to the work of love that to my 
hand is given, 

Each step on earth is luminous with sunshine 
born of heaven. 

Thrice welcome pain and weariness, thrice wel- 
come gloom and night, 

If ye but bear me quickly on to that fair land 
of light ! 



VII. 

ALL NIGHT IN PRAYER, 

\ LL night in prayer ! The stars came out 
in the sky, twinkling like silver lamps in 
the vault of blue, the clouds folded their 
fleecy curtains round the eartli^ the winds 
moaned and sighed, and the damp dews distilled 
on the mountains, while the long hours went 
on, hour after hour, till midnight dusk gave 
place to dawn, and the gray tints in the east 
faded away or were merged in the radiance of 
sunrise. Still knelt the Man of sorrows, pour- 
ing forth on the quiet night the voice of sup- 
plication to his Father. Weary and worn as he 
was when the day with its multiplied labors of 
love was over, at night, when others slept, he 
went alone to the mountain-top to pray. 

We know not, and we never shall know, all 
that we owe to those nights of prayer. The 

25 



26 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

world's Redeemer there made intercession for 
all coming generations. What vast trains of 
the children of men, in the various stages of ex- 
istence, from smiling infancy to helpless age, 
must have swept in review before the Saviour's 
eye. And as the shepherd knows each little 
lamb in all the flock, so our Shepherd, in those 
nights of weariness and pain, knew and recog- 
nized the thousands unborn, for whom he came 
to sufier. Tor his chosen ones he sent upward 
the voice of intense, earnest prayer, asking 
mercy alike for the sleeping world at his feet, 
and the unborn world that he saw with divine 
vision. 

Think of it, careless one ! As you lay your 
head upon a prayerless pillow, remember the 
Saviour's nights of agonizing prayer. As you 
walk forth into the busy scenes of life, having 
sought no protection from an unseen Arm, 
foolish heart, and blind ! pause and let memory 
go back to him, who, in everlasting love, did 
not forget you. The thought may yet prompt 
you to " look unto Jesus," who will open the 



ALL NIGHT IN PRAYEU. 27 

door of heaven to your immortal soul, if you 
will but knock. 

Think of it, sleepless one, tossing so lan- 
guidly on a restless pillow ! If conscience will 
not let you sleep, pray ! If care presses on you 
so heavily that your slumbers are light and un- 
restful, pray ! If fever trails her poison-drop- 
ping robes past you, and with hot breath withers 
the rose upon your cheek, pray, as Jesus often 
prayed, when faint and worn and sick. 

Christian, let the thought fall on you, as the 
word '' Peace " fell on the angry waters of Gen- 
nesaret. Soldier of Jesus, battling against nu- 
merous foes for an invisible crown, let it 
stimulate your zeal, and inspire you with 
strength, till you listen to the glad beat of the 
reveille, in the sunny morning when you first 
tread your everlasting home. Christian teacher, 
remember the great Teacher, in his toils and 
discouragements and prayers, on tlie green 
mountain slopes of Judaea, in the crowded streets 
of Jerusalem, in the rocking fishers' boats on 
breezy Galilee. Dying Christian, think of it on 
the dark billow and in the lonesome valley. 



VIII. 

MORNING, 

^00N is beautiful, with her crown of 
^^^ woven sunbeams, and her robes of re- 
splendent light. Night is sublime, with 
her myriads of shining stars, and her 
quiver of silvery brightness. But Morning 
smiles on the awakening earth like the incar- 
nation of tenderness and love. Her eyes look 
upon the flowers, her soft touch stirs the folded 
leaves, and their treasures of balmy fra- 
grance float away on the light wings of air. 
She gazes at her own beauty in the crystalline 
dewdrops, and joyously sings a tune to the 
low symphonies of brook and waterfall. Even 
in winter, when the hush that rests upon Na- 
ture seems like a spell impressed by the finger 
of God, Morning comes gently from the cham- 

28 



MORNING. 29 

bers of the east, fairest of the guardians who 
preside over the day. 

Life awakens anew with each morning. 
Every young day is in its earliest hours a resur- 
rection. At the faintest beam of light that 
pierces the enveloping shadows, multitudes of 
sleeping things start from the chains that bound 
them, and begin their appointed work. Chil- 
dren spring from the quiet couch, where they 
have slept the perfect sleep of health and youth, 
and are off to sport like the butterflies, or to 
work like the bees in the flowery fields. The sick 
one smiles because the night is over. Many a 
spirit that has battled the live-long night with 
the King of Terrors, at the coming of dawn 

" Walks through glory's morning gate. 
And wakes in Paradise. ' ' 

The sons and daughters of toil go forth again 
to the conflicts of labor and enterprise. The 
guilt-burdened soul, bowed with the conscious- 
ness of crime, is glad for the morning, because 
is is easier to meet the eye of man in the sun- 
light than the eye of God in the darkness. 
Morning is holy from its associations with 



30 JIOMK AND HEAVEN. 

divine remembrances in the Book of God. In 
its freshness and bloom, patriarchs and prophets 
communed with the Father. The smoke of 
the sacrifice went up from the altar of the tem- 
ple for thousands of years, at the coming in of 
day. Christ and his apostles began their labor 
of love ere the dew had dried from the cups of 
the lilies. The weeping women went very 
early in the morning to the sepulcher of him 
they loved, and Mary heard his sweet voice 
calling her name in the stillness of the garden 
at the first blush of sunrise. 

Mornings of earth ! how beautiful ye are ! 
So beautiful that methinks we shall keep with 
us a thought of your sweetness and delight, 
even amid the exceeding loveliness of the morn- 
ing that shall dawn upon us in the New Jeru- 
salem above. 




II. 

SHOW ME THYSELF, 

HEN the waves of trouble roll 
O'er the weary, burdened soul, 
Saviour, I shall strengthened be, 
If thou show thyself to me ! 

When the sun of joy is bright, 
And I revel in its light. 
Lest earth's bliss too dazzling be, 
Manifest thyself to me ! 

When I wander from the way. 
In the paths of danger stray. 
Bending down in mercy free. 
Saviour, show thyself to me ! 

Spirit, Comforter divine ! 
Be my heart thy blessed shrine ! 
From the tempter's snares set free, 
Come and show thyself to me ! 

31 



32 HOME AND HEAVEN, 



While earth's suns and shadows meet, 
Mmgling round my pilgrim feet, 
Till in heaven I rest with thee, 
Saviour, show thyself to me ! 





X. 

/ DWELL WITH MINE OWN. 



^HAT shall I give thee?" the prophet 
said, 

G)f>^ As before him she bowed her stately 
^^^ head, 

And the golden light of the noontide sun 
Encircled them both with its shining zone. 



"Riches or wealth for thy household band? 
Honors or gifts at the king's right hand? 
Tell me, I pray thee, if aught there be 
That my grateful heart can obtain for thee." 

Softly she spoke ; yet her sweet voice low 

Had a tone of freedom from pain and woe ; 

It thrilled through the heart of the prophet 

lone: 
"Nothing I crave, — I dwell with mine own." 
3 33 



34 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

I dwell with mine own! What visions come, 
Of kindred beloved, of a happy home ! 
Of meetings in peace 'neath the household vine, 
Of partings and prayers at the sun's decline ! 

O favored of Heaven, to us may be 

Granted the boon that so blessed thee! 

That when sunshine lights us, or tempests moan. 

We may smile or suffer "among our own." 




XL 

LOVE NOT THE WORLD. 

'ARTH has much that is surpassingly 
beautiful, to win the heart and chain the 
^)^ affections. How bright the bloom of the 
youthful spring, when the joy of a new 
life is thrilling in the veins of flower and tree, 
and the glory of a softer sunlight is flashing 
and darting into the deep nooks of the forest, 
and sparkling on the bosom of the wave ! How 
majestic the march of the summer, in her robes 
of gold, broidered with roses red and white, 
and fringed with deepest green ! How calm 
and peaceful the early autumn months, ere the 
hectic of the dying summer has faded into the 
pallor of decay ! How sublime the sweeping 
chorus of the storms, and the silent fall of the 
crystals, when winter scatters his snow like 
wool ! Truly, the Creator hath made all things 

35 



36 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

beautiful in their season ; and the loveliness of 
this home makes us hold our breath in won- 
der as we think of the next. 

Home hath many sweet ties that bind us 
earthward. Every year that goes over our 
heads makes dearer, by a thousand acts and 
words, the gray-haired father, the tender moth- 
er, the gentle wife, the loving husband, the du- 
tiful child. Ambition, pleasure, love, science, 
travel, every new achievement, every new de- 
light, every new acquirement, are so many ties, 
that, unsanctified, may bind us here and help 
us to forget the sweet hereafter. 

" Love not the world ! " says the apostle. 
Its fashions pass away, its glory fades, its fine 
gold dims, its treasures are eaten of the moth, 
its friendships often drop apart in rough winds 
of misfortune, like daisy chains, that children 
twine, and leave to wither when they tire of 
them. Love, thou bird of Paradise, fold thy 
wings never, till thou reach the everlasting 
home ! 



XII. 

ROCKING THE CRADLE, 

)T is pleasant to sit in the twilight, 
And watch the stars as they tread 
With their feet so swift and silent 
On the luminous floor o'erhgad ; 
But, oh, it is pleasanter far, I ween, 
To sit and rock the cradle at e'en. 
While the lullaby floats with its gentle rhyme, 
And the mother's heart to the tune keeps time. 

It is pleasant to float on the river, 

When the moonbeams faintly glow, 
And the words of a fiiend or a lover 

Blend with the oar-plash low ; 
But happier far is the quiet hour. 
When a mother's love hath the fullest power, 
And, by all save God and angels unseen. 
She rocks her darling's cradle at e'en. 

37 



XIIL 

/ AM WITH THEE ALWAYS. 

f]Sr the storm, in the calm, in the sun and the 
gloom, 
fThis promise of thine is our lamp to illume. 
Oh, what can we fear when this 'sweet word 
is given 
To light us along till we meet thee in heaven ! 

Oh ! leave us not, Lord, when hope's torch flashes 

high. 
When pleasure's cup sparkles, and friends cluster 

nigh. 
For when rapture and bliss shed their beams on 

our way. 
Then most we frail mortals will wander and stray. 

Oh, leave us not. Saviour, when clouds gather 

thick, 
When we're weary or sorrowing, lonely or sick ! 

38 



/ AM WITH THEE ALWAYS, 39 

When the dark mists of earth hide the hopes that 

we cherish, 
And despairing we whisper, " Save, Lord, or we 

perish ! " 

Be with ns. Redeemer, be with us at home ; 
Thy presence, thy blessing, its pleasures illume. 
At morning, at nightfall, how glorious to be 
Sustained and assisted and guarded by thee ! 

These footsteps are feeble; these pathways are 

steep; 
And the night winds of sorrow oft over us sweep ; 
But, guarded by thee, let our journeyings tend 
Still upward and onward. Redeemer and Friend ! 



XIV. 

"/ KNOW THY works:' 

fN all our changeful life, there is no hiding- 
place where our Saviour can not find us. 
TC Alike in the clear sunshine or the darkling 
storm, his eye is over his people, and his 
infinite heart holds them, every one. When 
the hill is steep, and briers and thorns grow on 
its sharp ascent, he is watching the weary flock, 
ready to help and to pity as they strain up the 
mountain-side. Wlien the path leads through 
velvet lawns and beside peaceful waters, the 
Shepherd gazes ^ tenderly, yet fearfully, upon 
them, for these are the '' Enchanted Grounds " 
where there is danger that the pilgrim fall into 
a fatal sleep. 

Jesus knows the works of his people. He 
knows their ways, whether they keep just on 

40 



"/ KNOW THY works:' 41 

the skirts of the world, or whether they walk 
in the narrow way that leadeth to himself. He 
knows when they extend a helping hand to the 
pale children of sorrow, and when they shut 
their ear to the cry of the desolate. Their mo- 
tives are all open to him. Men judge by results ; 
Christ sees the secret spring. 

Let the precious thought that we work under 
our Master's eye stimulate us to do and dare 
for him. When the spirit faints, let it reach 
forth in its feebleness to Jesus, the Strong. In 
the hour of prayer let it take courage, for he 
with whom it wrestles will hear and sustain. 
Upborne by everlasting arms, and looking to 
the Author and Finisher of our faith, let us 
press on to the joy that is set before us. 

'' I know thy works ! " should be a warning 
to the careless soul. While ye sleep, while ye 
toil, while ye trifle, time drifts you on to the 
presence of the eternal God. The same kind 
Saviour wlio now extends his oflers of mercy 
will by and by put on the form of the inexo- 
rable Judge. He who has known you all your^ 



42 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 



life will need no words to prove your guilt at 
the final hour. 

Eepent therefore, and believe, that you may 
at last enter into the presence of the Master 
with exceeding joy. 




XV. 

FOR EVER WITH THE LORD, 

^OR ever with thee, Brother, Friend! 
For ever close to thee, 
Through all the swiftly gliding years 
Of bright eternity ! 
N"o clouds to Teil thee from our sight, 
No mists to wrap the hills of hght, 

No cares to come between ; * 
But by thy side, and purified. 
In that fair world unseen ! 

For ever with thee, Saviour, Friend, 

No longer far away. 
To see thee, love thee without end. 

In yonder land of day! 
Temptations now away must flee, 
And trials change to ecstasy. 

And grief be lost in love. 
And strifes and fears and burning tears 

Be known no more above. 

43 



44 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

For ever with thee, Christ our Hope, 

The anchor of our soul ! 
Though here with winds and storms we cope, 

And billows wildly roll, 
Yet, breathing o'er the angry seas, 
We hear thy word commanding " Peace," 

And own thy watchful care ; 
What then shall be eternity, 

For ever with thee there ! 

For ever with thee! Nevermore 

To pain thy loving heart ! 
To wander weary on earth's shore. 

From thee, our Lord, apart! 
No more to wound thy guiding hand. 
No more to break thy kind command. 

Nor slumber in the fray ; 
But near thy side, and glorified. 

And freed from sin for aye. 

For ever! 'Tis a pleasant thought. 

When time and death are o'er. 
We'll meet our parted friends again. 

And break Love's chain no more. 
Oh, memory hath her pictures old. 



FOR EVER WITH THE LORD. 45 

Rarer than gems or woven gold, 

Of lost, and true, and fair. 
Whom we shall meet in union sweet, 

When we are summoned there. 

But, oh! for ever with the Loed, 

While fleeting ages roll. 
And music wakes from every chord 

Of this immortal soul ! 
'Tis this makes heaven so wondrous bright! 
'Tis this illumes earth's darkling night. 

For this we toil and pray; 
For this we hope and watch and wait 
• Till shadows flee away. 



XVI. 

LITTLE CARES, 

)N her beautiful little tract, entitled '^ Earthly 
\ Care a Heavenly Discipline/' Mrs. Stowe 
remarks that " Many Christians who can 
bow with meek submission to the will of 
God when a beloved child is taken away, are 
quite overcome by such trifles as the petulance 
of a servant or the breaking of a dish." 

No one who has ever closely examined his 
own heart can fail to know that the little things, 
the petty cares and annoyances which checker 
the passing days, are far more trying to the pa- 
tience and meekness of the spirit than the 
great things. The heaped-up treasures of years 
may fade before the moth, and the plans of 
ambition lie broken at our feet ; yet these may 
be borne with calm brow and serene speech. 
The missing paper in the morning, the coffee 

46 



LITTLE CARES. 47 

muddy, the biscuit burnt, the carelessness of a 
servant, may create a nervous impatience which 
shall mar the comfort of a whole day. 

Yet wherefore ? One reason is perhaps that 
we gird ourselves to grapple with great troubles, 
summoning all our moral strength to meet the 
crisis, while we sit down and let the little trou- 
bles conquer us. But the main reason is, that 
we forget to ask strength from heaven to bear 
the little things. We know that God's grace is 
freely promised ; but we act as if we thought it 
would be given grudgingly, and we go to the 
throne asking only for generalities. We should 
ask special strength for special needs. He who 
paints the lily, and guides the wing of the bird, 
will not forget us in our hours of care. Why 
should the faith which can trust for all eternity 
be afraid to take hold on Jesus for the little ne- 
cessities of time ? 

Let us not be sad Christians, impatient 
Christians, repulsive Christians. " The joy of the 
Lord is your strength." When the daily care 
makes the lip quiver and the brow contract, let 



48 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

US but get nearer to the Beloved. Thinking of 
his heavy cross, let us bear ours, so light in 
comparison, with patient smiles, if not with 
thankful songs. 




XVII. 

RIGHT SHALL CONQUER. 

\0 motto on earth is a better one for he- 
roes. It was a firm belief in the truth 
and the power of tlie riglit that made Lu- 
tlier utter his noble reply when urged not 
to go to Worms : " Though there were as many 
devils in Worms as there are tiles on the 
housetops, I would go ! " It was this which 
strengthened the martyrs of many climes and 
ages, when tried by fire and flood. It is this 
which kept and keeps many a missionary 
worker, in a barren and unfruitful field. It 
cheered Judson at Ava and Rangoon ; it helped 
Sarah Boardman as she wiped the death-damps 
from her husband's brow in tlie lonely Karen 
country. It shines like a star in many a low- 
roofed cabin in the far West, where the home 

49 



50 HOME AND HE A VEN. 

missionary struggles through manifold discour- 
agements to do his Master's work. 

Many a life that passes away in obscurity is 
sublime with this grand faith. The mother, 
worn out with cares, and aching for lack of 
sleep, remembers it, as she presses her burning 
head against the cool pillow at night. The fa- 
ther, working hard, and earning his bread by 
the sweat of his brow, the scholar toiling early 
and late to wrest some treasure of learning 
from oblivion and hand it down to the future, the 
editor, the physician, the seamstress, and the 
host of workers who must be content to work 
unappreciated, are all the better for a little 
green place in their hearts, where is written, 
though their lips never utter it, '' The right 
shall conquer! " 

There are lives like comets ; brilliant for a 
season, and sweeping through the sky with a 
whirl of splendor and a trail of silver radiance 
after them. There are lives like shooting stars; 
one moment of dazzling glory, — a fall, and 
unbroken gloom. There are some that shine 
steadily, steadily, over wild conflict of winds 



RIGHT SHALL CONQUER, 51 

and tossing of foamy waves, like the gleam of 
the light-house lamp in the midnight and the 
storm. There are others like the little rush- 
light by the cottage hearth, throwing faint ra- 
diance out over but a little space, but helping 
the mother to knit the stocking .as she rocks 
the cradle with her foot, and the boy to learn 
his lessons for the coming day. 

Each of these lives, and all of them, shall be 
better and braver and nobler for the thought 
of the conquering right. Each of them, and 
all, shall be God's witnesses for the right. 
Friend, will you not willingly give your testi- 
mony for God, and battle with all your strength 
to scatter light over a world's gloom ? 



XVIIL ^ 

OUR BEST FRIEND, 

'HOIT heavenly Friend! thou heavenly 
Friend ! 
How sweet when days are dark, 
When storms arise, to fly to thee, 
Our shelter and our ark! 
How sweet to hear thy gentle voice 

Above the tempest's rage; 
How sweet to clasp thy guiding hand 
Through all our pilgrimage ! 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

The friends we trust below 
May leave us in the bitter hour 

Of poverty and woe ; 
Let but suspicion's tainted breath. 

Or slander's poisoned dart. 
Assail us, and their mocking scorn 

Falls leaden on our heart. 

52 



OUR BEST FRIEND, 53 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

It is not so with thee; 
Thy little ones, dear Lord, are thine 

To all eternity. 
Firm as the everlasting hills, 

And sweeter, day by day. 
Thy love and faithfulness increase, 

Thy grace hath fuller sway ! 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

Thy goodness who can tell? 
We thank thee for this pleasant earth, 

This Beulah, where we dwell; 
We thank thee for the tented skies, 

For forests green and wide. 
For all the paths by which we climb, 

Dear Saviour, to thy side. 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

This earthly home is fair, 
And all our lives are jewel-decked 

With tokens of thy care. 
And, blessed be thy holy name, 

We have a home on high; 
And death is but the outer gate 

To that bright upper sky ! 



54 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

We thank thee most of all 
For thy daily life when here below. 

For Pilate's judgment hall; 
For weary bearing of thy cross, 

For mournful Calvary; 
And for thy rising from the dead, 

As raised we hope to be. 

Thou heavenly Friend ! thou heavenly Friend ! 

What wilt thou have us do? 
On let us labor in thy name, 

Our courage still renew; 
Thrice blessed if in that great day 

When thou shalt count each gem, 
One little star that we have won 

Shine on thy diadem. 



XIX. 

''NO MATTER WHEN, BUT HOWP 

'HESE were the sweet words of an aged 
saint. Often she repeated them in the 
hearing of her children and friends, until 
they became indelibly impressed on their 
memories. When others spoke of dreading 
death, she would smile calmly, and say, " No 
matter when, but how ! " If only we are 
found leaning on the arm of the Beloved, it 
matters little whether death takes us in the sun- 
ny hour of youth, or in the evening of declin- 
ing age. If the heart is right with God, what 
does it matter whether the spirit departs from 
earth at the swift sharp call of the Minie bul- 
let or the flashing of the saber on the battle- 
field, or suddenly ceases its beating in the busy 
street, or glides softly away, pulse by pulse, in 
the sweet seclusion of home ? It is but the dif- 

55 



56 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

ference of a few days or years, merged in the 
long glory of the hereafter. " Always ready ! " 
should be the motto of immortals. Ready by 
night or by day, in the house of God or in the 
mart of business, — ready at any hour to hear the 
Master say, " Well done, good and faithful ser- 
vant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." 

Such helpless creatures too we are, '^ crushed 
before the moth !" The fang of a reptile tears 
open the quivering flesh, a drop of subtile 
poison enters the veins, and we die. Walking 
leisurely along the forest path, a loosened 
branch falls, and stretches us lifeless on the 
ground. Now it is an unseen pitfall, now a 
sliding wall, a misplaced switch on a railroad, 
or a flaw in the boiler of the vessel that we 
are journeying in. Just a step between the seen 
and the unseen ! The veil is rent, and we are 
amazed to find how thin it is ; so near are earth 
and heaven. 

You have in your house, perhaps, what Mrs. 
Browning so beautifully calls " a sweet piece 
of the heaven that men strive for." How 
long it shall be yours, how long you shall hold 



''NO MATTER WHEX, BUT HOW." 57 

that baby, gazing with raptured tenderness on 
the sweet, rose-flushed cheek and lip, — the lovely 
eyes, beneath their fringe of long, sweeping 
lashes ; how long its faintest wail, if you are a 
mother, shall be your most dearly loved music, 
you can not know. But so live that, if God re- 
calls what he has given, you may be ready at 
any time to go where your treasure is. 

In any event, it is a great comfort to leave 
everything with Jesus. As the moss clings to 
the rock, reaching out a hundred invisible hands 
and taking hold so tightly that neither sun nor 
storm has power to disturb or tear it thence ; 
as the ivy clings to the oak, as the child to 
its mother, so let us cling to the Saviour. We 
can not tire him out. We can not get too 
near, nor stay too long. And let us fear noth- 
ing. " Little flock, it is your Father's good pleas- 
ure to give you the kingdom." Hand of man 
may not harm you, hand of angel shall not, till 
He wills it who is over all. So be brave. No 
matter when you die, but exceedingly great 
matter how. 




XX. 

IT MIGHT HA VE BEEN, 

^HAT might have been, dear brother? 
What might have crowned the year, that 
lies entombed beneath many a sad re- 
gret, with the laurels of victory? What 
words of kindness were left unspoken? What 
good resolutions were crushed in the bud ? 
What precious opportunities withered by the 
chill air of neglect ? What homes uncheered 
that might have smiled in the light of love ? 
Ah! in all the bitter laments that drift out 
with the tide, when the last wave of the year 
floats into the dim ocean of the past, no words 
are so fraught with sad meaning as these, " It 
might have been ! " 

As we turn the historic page, we are forced 
to utter them over and over. We see Genius 
wrecked upon the rocks of evil purpose. We 

58 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 59 

see love, mistaken and misdirected, prostituting 
its heaven-bestowed powers in the service of 
sin. Yv"e behold power welding the chains that 
bind thousands to lives of hopeless degradation, 
indolence blighting multitudes by her with- 
ering breath, unbelief flying to and fro, reso- 
lute and strong as Satan cleaving chaos on 
his way to work man's ruin. The world's past 
is a vast heap of ruins. Over its broken tem- 
ples and crumbling arches the soft beams of 
mercy shine ; and the choral song of tlie an- 
gels who heralded the coming Saviour sweeps 
yet with silvery cadence through its echoing 
halls; but it is for all a ruin inscribed with 
the record, ^' It might have been ! " 

The first soft light of a new year lies lov- 
ingly upon our earthly ways. Nevermore can we 
recall the hasty word, the unhallowed thought, 
the mistaken act. The last year is in its grave. 
And as we have, all of us, bent tearfully over 
the pale, cold brow of some beloved one, wish- 
ing that our tears could blot out all the remem- 
brance of aught we ever said or did to wound 
the heart of the quiet sleeper, so over the last 



60 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

year we breathe our murmurs of penitent sor- 
row. Let us '' watch and pray," that the 
golden moments of the present may bear no 
dark record as they flit away. 

When the long walk to the mission school 
must be taken alone, and the day is drear and 
dismal, when the wind is wild without, and the 
hearth-fire is warm and genial, then is the 
time to remember that Christ's soldiers are 
called upon to " endure hardness." When the 
voice of the sick little child, in the widow's up- 
per room, grows faint and far away in the midst 
of the pleasant merriment of home, and the 
voices of those we love are nearest and dearest, 
then is the hour for self-denial. When the un- 
just reproach or the unkind repartee springs 
to the lip, then is the time for resolute silence. 
When the tempter would cheat the soul with 
the treacherous '' to-morrow" that floats like a 
mirage before so many till it drives them to 
inaction and despair, then is the time to meet 
him with a noble, decided ''Now." 

" Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these, ' It might have been.' " 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 



61 



Let us live so faithfully and earnestly that 
we may have no cause to utter them sorrow- 
fully as our heads press the pillow, when this 
year has grown old. 




XXI. 

ALONE IN THE DARK. 

• TAY by me to-night, dear mamma ! " said a 
child ; 
" The rain rattles down, and the wind is so 
wild ; 

I shut up my eyes, and I cover my head. 
And draw myself up in a heap in the bed ; 
And I think about robbers, and shiver with fear : 
Do stay by me, mother ! It's so dark up here ! " 

" I can not, my darling ; and why should I stay ? 
You are never afraid to come hither by day ; 
You study and play in this same little room, 
And never have left it with fear or with gloom; 
Why, then, when you're wrapped up so cozy and 

warm. 
Do you think about things that can do you no 

harm ? " 
62 



ALONE IN THE DARK. 63 

" Oh, mother, it's light in the daytime, you know, 
And the smishine then puts all the room in a glow ; 
And up from the hall comes a murmur of sound. 
And Jennie and Kittie are running around ; 
Though your voice, dear mother, I don't always 

hear, 
It's so light and so cheerful, I know you are there." 

" My dear little boy, I'm afraid you forget 
That God is near by, watching over you, pet. 
Nor darkness nor daylight is safe without One 
Who sees us and guards us till life's race is run. 
In the loneliest night he is close by your side ; 
If you love him and trust him, 'the Lord will 
provide.' 

"You never need fear, but, when feeble or faint. 
Then call on the Lord; he will hear your com- 
plaint. 
There's no one to hurt you when God is so nigh ; 
His angels to keep you descend from the sky." 

The child put his soft little hand in her own. 
And kissed the dear face that so lovingly shone ; 
"You may put out the light, mother dear, when 

you please ; 
If I feel afraid now, I will think that God sees." 



XXII. 

THREE YEARS OLD. 

HAVE a little daughter, 

A sweet and precious child, 
And the light of three short summers 
Hath on her pathway smiled. 
Her face is round and rosy, 

For health hath nestled there, 
And her brow is smooth and happy, 
Beneath her nut-brown hair. 

Ere day hath dawned she wakes me 

With kisses warm and sweet; 
And soon the halls are ringing 

To the patter of her feet. 
No shade of care or sorrow 

Hath wrapped her in its fold, 
And I envy, looking on her, 

The light of three years old! 
64 



THREE YEARS OLD. 65 

Her heart is brimming over 

With love for all things fair; 
The birds, and bees, and flowers. 

In her afiections share. 
Her heart is like a fountain 

Whence fragrant waters pour, 
And not a drop of bitter 

Hath dimmed the bubbles o'er. 

I watch her in tbe twilight, 

When stars come out on high, 
And dart their silver brightness 

From yonder arching sky. 
She has an angel motlier, 

Above that crystal dome, 
Who smiles perhaps upon her. 

From out the heavenly home. 



She hath little griefs and sorrows 

The tiniest have tbeir share. 
And we early learn life's lesson, 

To suffer and to bear. 
But a little word of comfort 

Will chase the grief away, 
And send her bright and smiling 

To her careless, gleeful play. 
5 



66 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

I can not tell, my darling, 

What life doth hold for thee, — 
What chords of joy or sorrow 

Shall murmur thrillingly ; 
For hearts that love most fondly 

Oft bleed o'er blight and woe, 
And the jewel long is polished 

That sheds the rarest glow. 

May a Father's heart infold thee, 

As years shall o'er thee fleet, 
And mingle thorn and flower 

Beneath thine onward feet! 
Yet, oh, that thou could'st linger. 

When many a year is told, 
As happy and as free, love. 

As now at three years old! 



XXIIL 

UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORLD, 

HE question of amusements is a question 
of conscience with many Christians. Just 
how far one may venture into the region 
frequented by the votaries of fashion, 
just how definite and clear shall be the line 
that separates the church from the world, is, to 
many a true disciple of Jesus, who would not 
willingly bring reproach upon the Master's 
name, a theme of absorbing interest. Where 
lies the golden mean between a sinful latitude 
and an equally sinful bigotry ? Shall we best 
serve our Saviour's cause in this world by let- 
ting down the bars that divide his people from 
his foes, until they are so low that the thought- 
less shall step over by mistake ; or by keeping 
fast to the old landmark that he himself set up 
when he said, '' Strait is the gate, and narrow 

67 



68 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

is the way, that leadeth unto life, and few there 
be that find it" ? Shall we keep our Sabbaths 
with reverence and solemnity, as days set apart 
for the worship of a holy God, or shall they be 
to us glad days indeed, but only so in that 
lower sense which would dedicate them to 
frolic and feasting, to merriment and song ? 
Shall we cling to the old-fashioned Christian- 
ity of our forefathers and of the Bible, or shall 
we be swept on, like waifs, in the flood of false 
doctrine and mistaken amusement that pours 
through the life and literature of the century? 

Years ago, in my childhood, I attended a 
school on the banks of the Passaic. Beautiful 
river, winding like a silver band through the 
green meadows and dimpling hills and vales 
of Jersey, how many a sweet, never-to-be-for- 
gotten association is recalled by thy name ! 
There are broader and statelier streams on the 
great continent, there are names that thrill to a 
thousand brave historic memories, for every one 
of thine ; but there are none brighter, busier, 
bolder, in all the arterial network, than the 
little Passaic, whether flashing between marshy 



UNSPOTTED FEOM THE WORLD. 69 

banks in the morning sun, or turning the 
throbbing wheels of the mill, or foaming with 
voice of muffled thunder and beams of rain- 
bow light over the rocks at- the Paterson Falls. 
In that little low-roofed school-house I 
learned some of the most valuable lessons 
of my life, — not the least among them, the 
importance of setting a consistent Christian 
example before even the youngest child. It 
would be wrong to utter words of eulogy, 
however deserved, upon those dear teachers 
who still tarry upon the earth ; but of her who 
has passed within the veil I may truly say, 
speaking for many beside myself, she was, in 
our eyes, a '' living epistle," wherein we saw 
the " beauty of holiness." Her life was " un- 
spotted from the world ; " and those words 
ever recall to my mind a vision of a calm, 
pale face, soft, thoughtful, brooding eyes, and 
smooth hair falling over an unruffled brow. 
The tones of her voice, the silvery echo of her 
laugh, come back to me, after many years, like 
a sweet strain of music, and the hours I spent 
* beside her desk are among the golden ones of 



70 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

memory, to be treasured wberi my eye grows 
dim and my hair gray. 

To her I went once with a childish '' case 
of conscience." What it was, I have forgotten 
now ; probably something small in itself, yet 
to my youthful mind important; but, though the 
occasion has slipped from me, not so her reply. 
It simply sent me to the test by which her own 
acts were tried, ■ — to the one unerring test by 
which the Christian should regulate his life. 
To-day I have the tiny slip of paper — somewhat 
yellow now, the graceful characters traced upon 
it faded and brown — which I found in the little 
drawer of my table when the recess was over ; 
these words merely, for all answer, — 

"- Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or what- 
soever ye do, do all to the glory of God." 

I think that to this test, these infallible nt- 
terances of Scripture, we ought to bring the 
question of amusements, and conscientiously, 
abide by the decision to which' it leads us. 
Whatever we can engage in heartily, diappily, 
hopefully, as in the presence and to the glory 
of God, can not be wrong. "Whatever we enter 



UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORLD, 71 

upon with conscience uttering a mental pro- 
test in our bosoms, and filling us with an un- 
easy sense of '' stolen waters," and " bread 
eaten in secret," pleasant now, but sure to be 
bitter by and by, can not be right. Whatever 
carries upon it, even in the eyes of a lenient 
world, the sign-manual of Satan, can not by 
any amount of explanation or argument be 
converted into a profitable recreation for a 
Christian. 

Not long since, I watched by the dying bed 
of an aged lady. The snows of many winters 
were on her white hair, but until stricken 
down in her last illness she had known little 
trouble, and far less pain and care than fall to 
the lot of most people. Her eyes had not lost 
their sight, nor her frame its vigor. Through 
the longer portion of her sickness, which was 
protracted, her mental powers were clouded, 
and toward the last she was totally uncon- 
scious. Through the long, still hours of her 
latest night on earth I sat by her, while the 
laboring breath grew fainter, fainter, and fainter 
still, then ceased altogether, and over the face 



72 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

passed the quick, subtile change, which told 
that the soul had fled. Then others came to 
array the body for its last resting-place, and 
kind hands lingered lovhigly about the aged 
form as they dressed it for the grave. '' Ah ! " 
said one, as she lifted the hands that lay cold 
and lifeless, and crossed them on the breast, 
" how often have I seen these hands shuffling 
and dealing cards at whist ! Poor old lady ! 
Cards were her passion ! " 

Now, there are many people who see no 
harm in a social game of cards. Many mem- 
bers of churches play themselves, and encour- 
age their children so to do, regarding them as 
•a pleasant way of passing an evening, incom- 
parably superior to gossip. Others take tlie 
ground that none who have been used to play- 
ing cards in their homes in childhood will in 
after years indulge in the soul-destroying pur- 
suits of the gambler, or rush to the excitement 
of games of chance as a relief from the monot- 
ony of life. Par be it from the writer to dic- 
tate to any, but, reader, would you like it that. 
in some future day, when your hands, that 



UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORLD. 73 

now are warm, shall be marble cold, a friend, 
standing by your side, should remark, '' Ah ! 
they will never shuffle the cards any more ! " 

Rather, when the majesty of death stamps it- 
self on us, when the heart has grown weary of 
its work, and the red blood stands still in the 
veins, may it be remembered how our hands 
gave food to the hungry, clothing to the naked, 
comfort to the sad, soothing to the sick, and 
gentle ministries to the aged and the young. 

Tliere remain, when from the list of recrea- 
tions those Avhich may at best be considered 
doubtful are stricken out, many which are per- 
fectly pure and of good report. Of these, those 
out-door pleasures which win to merriment 
and wholesome excitement, which flush the 
cheek with the rose of health and light the eye 
with the sparkle of enjoyment, must take pre- 
cedence. Horseback-riding, skating, and cro- 
quet, are not merely sanitary in their influence, 
and therefore good ; tliey bring us nearer to 
our mother Nature, and nearer too to Nature's 
God. Out in the fresh air and tlie sunsliine, 
with all God's happy, healthy creatures, we can 



74 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

drink from the fountain of pleasm^e wliicli he 
has made. 

Never, dear brother, let us do what may 
prove a stumbling-block to any soul that is 
struggling into the way of life. Never let us 
go where we can not pray for God's blessing to 
follow; never take a step nearer the world, 
instead of a step nearer heaven ; never, even in 
our hours of recreation, forget the " glory of 
God ; " and never cease to pray that even here 
we may be '' unspotted from the world." Shall 
we not by and by wear white raiment ? 



I 



XXIV. 

FR O S T- WORK. 

LITTLE one sought me this morning, 
Her blue eyes shining bright, 

While over her cheek the dimples 
Were playing in changeful light. 

"Come up to my room," she whispered; 

"A curious thing is there! 
A painter has worked through the night hours 

In the cold and shivering air. 

"He has made a beautiful castle 

Far up on a mountain high; 
And a forest of stately trees. 

With boughs that reach to the sky. 

"They are all on my window, mother, 
The strange and beautiful things, 

And the morning sun above them 
A rainbow beauty flings!" 

75 



76 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

I went with the little prattler 
The mystical Avork to see; 

And glorious in the sunlight 
Was the delicate tracery. 

For all night long the artist 
Had silently wrought away. 

And only put by his pencil 
At the coming in of day, — 

Softly and stealthily toiling, 
By the holy light of the stars, 

And the light that streams like a glory 
From the far-oif crystal bars. 

He had gone, as he came, in silence. 
But his work was left behind. 

Like the fairies who send their favors 
By night to the good and kind. 

How often the silent worker 

In the busy mart of time 
Weaves a life of angel beauty. 

Then soars to another clime! 

And when lip and brow have faded 
In the dust and gloom of death. 



FROST-WORK. 



77 



Their memories come to the living, 
Evangels of love and faith. 

Oh! teach me, beautiful frost- vrork, 

Another lesson in life, — 
The web that is woven by night-time, 

At morning with gems may be rife. 




XXY. 

THE CROSS. 

^WERE sweet to stand on Olivet, where 
^ stood the Lord of old, 

^^ And hear the tender Shepherd call his 
^ wanderers to the fold. 

But, oh, a purer joy is ours, though dimmed by- 
flowing tears. 
When at the foot of Calvary we cast away our 
fears ! 

Here may the little children come, as fearless 

and as free 
As when they bend to lisp their prayer beside 

their mother's knee. 
Here may the sinner, deeply stained, find peace 

and be forgiven. 
For Christ, the sinless Lamb, Avas slain for us to 

open heaven. 

Come, burdened heart, bowed down with grief, 

and mourning o'er thy dead! 

78 



THE CROSS. 79 

The Saviorii* hath his grace for thee; thy path 

his feet did tread ; 
He ever heeds the mourner's prayer, and, weary 

though thou be, 
Thy burden will be felt no more, removed at 

Calvary. 

The waves of time go dashing on; the shifting 

winds of life 
Are wafting us unweariedly, through varying 

scenes of strife, 
To yonder bright, eternal shore, — we'll gain it 

without loss. 
If still with love and faith we turn to One 

upon the cross. 

How precious through the gathering years seems 

mournful Calvary ! 
Not Hermon, with its glory, is half so sweet to 

me; 
Not Olivet, nor mountains lone, where Jesus 

went to pray. 
Can touch the heart like Golgotha, where 

breathed his life aAvay: 
H(^ gave his life a sacrifice, he died in agony ; 
O sinner, take it to thy heart, he gave his 

life for thee! 



XXVI. 

COBWEBS FROM THE CEILING, 

fT was a lady's parlor. There was a soft, 
rich carpet on the floor, and pictures 
# smiled from the walls. Many articles of 
taste and beauty adorned the room. There 
were statuettes in marble and bronze, shells 
from distant sun-bright shores of India or the 
islands of the Pacific, wax-flowers that rivaled 
nature, and minerals from the heart of the 
earth. Books in elegant bindings lay on the 
tables. Nothing pained the eye by unsightli- 
ness or ostentation. It was a perfect gem of a 
parlor. 

But high up in a corner of the ceiling, 
twisting into the intricate foliage pendent from 
the pure cornice, there hung a great, black, 
dusty cobweb. It had eluded the lady's vis- 
ion and the housemaid's broom, till it had 

80 



COBWEBS FROM THE CEILING. 81 

grown into a drapery that overhung the beauty 
and profusion of the pleasant room like a pol- 
luted thing. 

Its many companions were there for some 
good purpose. The useful and the beautiful 
linked their strong, fair hands together in smil- 
ing unity, save in that corner, where the rude 
fingers of neglect and disorder had been at 
work, weaving that solitary cobweb. 

I have seen characters somewhat like this. 
They were fair as the summer morning, sym- 
metrical and pleasant. Generous, kind, and 
thoughtful, earnest and useful, haw sad that 
any lurking stain should deface them ! Alas ! 
away up in a corner, which the sunbeams sel- 
dom penetrated, there hung a dusty web of 
envy, like a gloomy spirit, or a shrouding 
robe of selfishness, invisible and unsuspected. 
How drearily the little cobweb defaced the 
temple that had else been pure and white ! 

A little cloud, like '' a man's hand," is, on 
eastern skies, herald of the coming storm. A 
little lio'lituino-flash shivers the oak that has 
flourislied a hundred years. A little word has 

«r 

6 



82 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

sealed the fate of an empire. So a little 
cobweb in a character sometimes creeps and 
creeps till it darkens with its hateful shadow 
all that was lovely. Who would have thought 
that the Isabella, patron and founder of a new 
civilization, who sent Columbus on his mission 
over unknown seas, would have been also won 
by priestcraft to become patron and founder 
of the Spanish Inquisition ? Who would have 
thought that the Elizabeth who rode so bravely 
along the lines of her soldiers when the Ar- 
mada was expected, coming like a great bird 
of prey to ^eize the island, would afterward 
have been so cruel and so cowardly as to sign 
the death-warrant of poor Mary of Scots ? Who 
would have known the Arnold who was car- 
ried from Saratoga's field covered with wounds 
and glory for the same Arnold whose name 
shall go down to all ages as a synonym of 
shame ? Take care of the cobwebs ! 

Mother, brush away that little web of de- 
ceit which Satan is trying to weave over the 
mind of your child, which should be open as 
the day. Let not the cobwebs of greed, or 



COBWEBS FROM THE CEILING. 83 

self-love, or suspicion, or vanity, gather in the 
dim corridors of your own soul. 

I have seen cobwebs that were very beautiful. 
They hung from the leaves of the rosebud, 
and festooned the robes of spring. Dewdrops 
glistened in them, and sunbeams ♦shimmered 
through their ethereal texture. Still they were 
cobwebs, akin to the things that hide in dark 
places and lurk in dim corners of slirines. 
Likened they may be to the frown that looks 
pretty on the dimpled face of a child, or pi- 
quant on the ivory brow of the young girl, but 
which grows into such a liard, repulsive look 
when age and wrinkles come. They are like 
the nameless additions and exaggerations which 
sometimes make a good story a little better, 
but wliich are all the while paving a way for 
falsehood to trail her garments over; cobwebs, 
hanging darkly from the ceiling or veiling a 
glowing June rose. Reader, brush them away. 



XXYIL 

THE NINE O'CLOCK BELLS. 

^IGHT after night tliey ring out on the air, 
^% clearly, boldly, telling that another day is 
••-^ almost gone, and summoning the weary 



to repose. 

Hands that are weary now forsake the task, 
and aching heads seek the welcome pillow. 
Bright eyes are veiled by the long, fringing 
lashes, and the honey-dew of slumber falls 
lightly over the happy world of childhood. 
Alas, that many a tired brain must labor by 
the light of the midnight taper, and many a 
toiler work long after the echo of the nine 
o'clock bell has died away in silence ! Alas 
for the little ones, too early matured, whose 
shouts of laughter fill the streets, after night- 
fall, with the knell of childish innocence ! for 
the golden-haired cherubs, who, robed in silk 

84 



THE NINE O'CLOCK BELLS. 85 

and purple, are threading the mazes of the 
dance, and drmking fragrant poison from the 
cup of folly, long after the gooiold hour of nine ! 

Nine ! Hour around which pleasant memo- 
ries meet, memories of the proud, true-hearted 
past, when body and mind kept pace together, 
and the bright rose of health bloomed oftener 
on the smooth cheek of matron and maid than 
now ; when the lights were out in the farmer's 
kitchen, and the embers burned dimly on the 
cottage hearth ; when the sweet incense of 
prayer and praise went up from uncounted 
homes to our Father's ear, and beneath his 
kindly care parents and children went to sleep 
at nine. Happy indeed are the little ones, in 
these days of tinsel and glitter, whose merri- 
ment is hushed by the gentle angel of slumber 
before the evening bells begin their chimes. 

Their strain floats to me as I write, borne on 
tlie soft, still air, — -also another sound, the 
navy-yard drums beating the signal tattoo, that 
the lights may be put out and the marines go 
to rest. I prefer the bells. I have heard them 
when winter winds were raving like furies, and 
storms swept madly over the blackened sky. I 



86 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

have heard them mingling with the thousand 
sweet sounds of the summer night. In the 
darkened chamber of the sick, I have bent over 
the couch and bathed the hot brow of a suf- 
ferer. Mournfully, earnestly it has thrilled me 
by the dying, when, hand in hand with them, I 
have striven to catch the angel-notes that the 
shining ones were singing to help them through 
the lone valley. And in the cold, serene pres- 
ence of the beautiful dead, the nine o'clock 
bells have warned me that the day was far 
spent, that the night hastened, that ere long 
the bells should chime my last night on earth, 
and I should hear — oh, wonderfully sweet and 
precious the sound ! — the morning bells of 
the better land. 

In the early days of England the curfew 
nightly " tolled the knell of parting day.'' 
Then, stern despotism willed that alike in hut 
or hall the lamps should cease to burn, and 
the fire go out on the hearth. How men 
hated the '' curfew," and chafed at the restric- 
tion which put out the lamp that burned in the 
window to lure the wanderer home, and the 
fire that kept the life-warmth in feeble age or 



THE NINE O'CLOCK BELLS. 87 

helpless infancy. Stern hearts brooded over 
the wrong, and nursed their wrath in silence 
that afterwards became most eloquent speech. 
Not so speak to us our evening bells ! They 
demonstrate to all avIio hear them the reign 
of comparative order, of intelligent knowledge, 
of progress among the people. 

Message-laden bells I Hear them, heart ! 
The day is done. Hast thou toiled in the vine- 
yard ? Hast thou souglit of thy five talents to 
make ten? Hast thou helped the smitten 
stranger by the way, or, like tiie Levite and 
the priest, passed by on the other side ? Hast 
thou held so much as one cup of cold water to 
the parched lips of a fainting disciple ? Hast 
thou dropped a single seed for heaven any- 
where on the barren plains of earth ? Art 
thou nearer thy God than thou wert at this 
hour last night ? 

So should these evening bells speak to the 
Christian. As he regulates his chronometer by 
their steady voice, so should he look well that 
his soul be keeping steady time with the bells 
of the world invisible. 



XXVIII. 

DEATH OF AN OLD LADY. 

ffl, softly wave the silver hair 
Upon that aged brow ! 
The crown of glory, worn so long, 
A fitting crown is now. 
Fold reverently the weary hands, 

That wrought so long and well. 
And while your tears of sorrow fall, 
Let sweet thanksgivings swell. 

That life-work reached through many a year 

The deftly woven web, 
With silver strands by sorrow wrought. 

And sunny gleamings shed. 
The year that graved this line so deep 

Was that sad year of death. 
When, far from home, her first-born son 

Gave uj) his youthful breath. 
88 



DEATH OF AN OLD LADY. 89 

These silvered hairs stole softly on, 

Like flakes of falling snow; 
When first the frost of age we saw, 

Not one of us may know. 
Enough, for every silver hair 

We count some good deed done, 
Some flower she cast along life's way. 

Some spark from love's bright sun. 

How bright she ever made her home! 

The sunshine at the door 
Would seem to pause, then, laughing in. 

Would light from roof to floor. 
The very falling of her step 

Made music as she went; 
A song was ever on her lip, 

A carol of content. 

Gaze long upon the sweet, calm face, 

Beneath the banded hair; 
There lingers yet life's saintly grace. 

Though death's cold seal is there. 
There tarries yet the lovely look. 

That, fifty years before. 
Made beautiful the blushing bride. 

Within the old church door; — 



90 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Made lovely as a dream of heaven. 

When, with a mother's joy, 
She bent above the cradle nest 

Of her first darling boy. 
The mother-look! Not death itself 

Shall fade the mystic grace 
With which it brightens, when it falls 

E'en on the plainest face. 

O thou, whose life for many years 

Has been so dear a thing 
To children's children round thy chair 

Who fondly loved to cling ! 
All over now the grief, the fears, 

The pains and joys of life; 
For ever done with earthly tears, 

With earthly woe and strife ! 

And safe within thy Father's house, 
Where many mansions be, 

Pray only that such rest may come, 
Dear heart, to thee and me! 



XXIX. 

A S P I RA TI O NS. 

^ LOSER, closer, Saidour, fold us 

In thine arms, till life is o'er; 
CO 

Fondly, tenderly infold ns, 

While we tread this stormy shore : 

For if thou thy hold dissever. 

Saviour, we are lost for ever! 

Nearer, nearer, S ardour, draw us ! 

We have wanderers been for aye; 
Mists obscure the light before us ; 

We forget to watch and pray. 
Nearer, through each sad transition, 
Lead us to the blest fruition. 

Louder, louder. Saviour, call us! 

Earthly voices fill our hearts. 
Earthly loves and earthly pleasures, 

Till thy pleading voice departs; 

91 



92 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Let thy words of peace and blessing 
Woo us from our oft transgressing. 

Higher, higher, Saviour, lead us, 
From these lowly vales of time ! 

List our pleading! Bend to hear us 
From the sunny hights sublime! 

Higher! till the flesh is riven, 

And we soar and sing in heaven! 

Ever, ever. Saviour, keep us. 
Till we rest in yonder home, 

Where no tempter's voice shall reach us, 
Where no sorrow's blight shall come. 

There we'll cast our crowns before thee, 

Love, and wonder, and adore thee! 



XXX. 

RAINY DA YS, 

fNTO each life some rain must fall." Beau- 
tiful ever is the sunshine, but never more 
^ so than when it wraps the earth in a robe 
of light after a period of storms. It is 
not natural for youth, with its bright hopes and 
unflagging energy, to rejoice in the day which 
is curtained by a leaden sky and fringed by the 
dripping rain. 

Yet I would plead for the rainy day. It 
brings room for many quiet pleasures, for many 
joys that peculiarly cling to the fireside. It 
gives space for thought and reflection, for in- 
looking upon our own hearts, which we can not 
so fully enjoy when the flashing light, the sap- 
phire sky, and all the golden glory of a sunny 
day, are dissipating thought and wooing us to 
enter the great world without. It brings the 

93 



94 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

members of a family closer together, and unites 
them by a stronger tie. The little daughter of 
a fashionable mother once said to me, — "I do 
hope it will rain to-day ! " " Why, my dear ? " 
" Because if it rains, motlier will stay at home." 
Unfortunate little one, whose hopes for '' mo- 
ther's " care and company depended on a stormy 
day! 

Music never sounds more sweet than when 
beneath each dying chord the low patter of the 
rain comes in for accompaniment. 

What is more musical than the rain itself ? 
How it dashes over your head, and drifts you 
along to dreamland, when at night its countless 
performers take up the song of the stars ! How 
it comes tap, tapping at your window-pane, the 
first thing that you hear in the morning, after 
its monody has lulled you to sweetest rest the 
night before ! How sweet the ripple of melody 
which it stirs in the brook, when the drops 
from above meet and shake hands with the 
drops that are sleeping ! How it sparkles in the 
first sunbeam that comes after the " clearing-up 
shower," on the lance-like points of the grass- 



RAINY DAYS. 95 

blades, in the sweet honey-cups of the flowers, 
and among the trees with their millions of 
rustling leaves. 

A rainy day is very favorable for the reading 
of old letters. There is a charm in a bundle of 
faded letters, paper and ink alike yellow with 
age, that the most enchanting book and the 
brightest picture fail to impart. You remember 
when the little '' four-leaved folio" was put 
into your hands, like an angel-missive, each 
word throbbing with affection. Perhaps the 
hand that traced your name, with those little, 
fond love-words attached to it, has turned to 
dust in the grave. Perhaps the blight of mis- 
understanding or harshness has fallen between 
you and your old friend, and the page you are 
reading comes back to you like the echo of for- 
gotten love. Perhaps the missive is the first 
link in a chain which has bound yours with 
some kindred heart, and which can not be 
broken till death touches it with his icy wand. 
You would hardly read over those faded leaves 
in the broad, laughing face of the sun ; but the 



96 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

mournful sky and the tearful clouds are full 
of sympathy. 

Our lives are the better for tlie rain that falls 
into them. They who have known no sorrow 
have never felt the honey-dropping balm of com- 
fort. We are nearer heaven for the ministry 
of grief. Let us sing as we go, — 

*' Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ! 
Though like the wanderer. 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness be over me. 

My rest a stone. 
Yet in my dreams I'd be 

Nearer, my God, to thee. 
Nearer to thee I " 




XXXL 

UNCONSCIOUS HEROISM. 

E are living in an heroic age. Now, as 
ever, are deeds of darkness done, and 
^S^ ^cts of meanness and littleness, that 
creep along, shunning the daylight ; but 
all around the air teems with brightness and 
beauty, and every touch of the wind as it fans 
our brows thrills us and braces to high and 
pure endeavor. During the civil war which 
has rocked the land from end to end, our daily 
lives were full to overflowing of the heroic. 
Every bulletin-board, scanned by hundreds of 
eager eyes, conveyed to the public heart some 
record of the sublime and glorious deeds that 
brave men were doing at the front. Every 
newspaper, crowded with intelligence from the 
first page to the last, told, perhaps in most un- 
pretending prose, of the truest poetry that ever 

97 



98 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

tlu'obbed in the human lieart. Every camp and 
battle-ground became a school for heroes. 
Every modest home, wiiether under the grand 
shadow of the New Hampshire hills, or within 
sound of the breaking, foam-crested surf on 
the wild Atlantic coast, or out on a rolling 
prairie of the West, clasped its arms around 
brave hearts that were nerved to suffering and 
sacrifice. Old men threw away their crutches 
and grew young again ; old women who had 
"grandmother" written in every fold of the 
snowy kerchief over their shoulders, in every 
ripple of the snowy cap that covered their lovely 
silver hair, sat straighter up in the chimney cor- 
ner, as they began to knit for the soldiers. Lit- 
tle children felt the thrill, and were as patriotic 
as their elders. 

Constantly, somebody was doing something 
that commanded our admiration, and compelled 
our homage. When Sheridan thundered back, 
on his coal-black steed, over the twenty miles 
that separated him from his flying army, turn- 
ing defeat into victory by the magnetism of his 
presence and the grandeur of his courage, he 



UNCONSCIOUS HEROISM. 99 

took the people's hearts by storm, and they 
lifted him up at once to a place among those 
they loved to honor. When the sweet, solemn, 
prophetic words of Lincoln's second Inaugural 
were read in every mansion and cottage in the 
land, the nation bowed before the man who was 
raised up of God to be not only our ruler, but 
our father ; and like bereaved children they 
mourned when he was stricken down by the 
assassin. The records of the prison and the 
hospital are filled with lines of gold. None 
but those who have seen it can realize how 
uncomplainingly middle-aged men and beard- 
less boys alike bore their terrible sufferings, — 
listening without a murmur to the surgeon's 
dictate ordering the mutilated limb to be am- 
putated, bearing without an angry word pri- 
vation and discomfort, murmuring in sleep or 
dreams the^ sweet word '' Mother ! " while the 
heart was homesick almost unto death, and the 
eyes grew dim with tears that would not be 
stayed, at the thought of the miles and montlis 
between the tent and the roof-tree. None but 
those who saw them can realize how our men 



100 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

looked as they came up from Libby or Belle 
Isle: gaunt, wan, weird-figured, with rags hang- 
ing loosely around them, unwashed, uncombed, 
with matted beards pendent from cheeks and 
chins, hollow, cavernous eyes, looking up with 
touching radiance at the dear old flag, glad 
to get home from the house of bondage, yet 
eager to return to duty in the field. And we 
need not utter the names of women, tried and 
true, who went forth from the shelter of the 
household and the shield of the fireside to 
nurse in hospital or transport, or on the field 
of death itself, these boys in blue whom we all 
loved and honored. 

The praise of these men, the homage due 
these women, are in every heart, on every lip. 
But there are heroes whose names shall never 
be known, whose record shall never be written, 
whose reward shall never reach them in this 
world ; who must wait till the angel reapers put 
in the sickle and the last trumpet sounds the 
reveille at the resurrection. They toil through 
the heat of life's common days, having the 
work, but none of the glory ; they bear the bur- 



UNCOXSCIOUS HEROISM. 101 

dens, but wear none of the crowns ; they feel the 
thorns, but are not garlanded with the roses. 
By and by they drop out of life, and out of 
memory, forgotten save by one or two faithful 
hearts, and the great world is not saddened at 
all. 

There is a record of these heroes whom no- 
body knows, but God keeps it, and no eye but 
his reads therein. 

Of such are many lowly Christian men and 
women whose life is a struggle for bread ; 
seamstresses, who have much to do to keep the 
wolf from the door ; teachers, who never get be- 
yond the little primary school ; missionaries, who 
go, almost unheralded, to climes where the air is 
poisoned, and the sunshine pestilential ; who toil 
through weariness and pain a few brief months 
or years, till the Master calls them higher ; minis- 
ters, whose places of labor are in remote hamlets 
of the West, where the people are poor and un- 
taught, or in the purlieus of great cities, where 
crimes or vices congregate ; mission-schoolteach- 
ers, who scale the crazy tenement stair or descend 
into the dark and dirty cellar in search of souls 



102 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

to save ; all who do Christ's work, in a lost 
world, without thought of recompense, save the 
" Well done, good and faithful servant," at the 
end of the day. 

I know a lady whom the world calls by the 
pathetic title given too often half in coldness, 
half in scorn, — old maid. She is a maiden, 
and prematurely old. Her brow has wrinkles 
that forty years ought not to have written upon 
it. Her eyes are sharp and bright yet, many 
hours of midnight labor not having robbed 
them of their usefulness. Her skin is freckled, 
and drawn too tightly over the thin face. Her 
dark hair is threaded here and there with con- 
stantly thickening lines of gray. Her hands, 
once soft and dimpled, are toil-hardened and 
bony. Her figure has lost its symmetry, 
and her shoulders are stooping. You would 
pass her on the street without a thought or a 
look ; for the beauty of the invisible doe^ not 
always shine through and illuminate the earth- 
ly form. 

Yet this woman is a saint. And in the old 
days there were saints and martyrs who went 



UXCOXSCIOUS HEROISM. 103 

through fires of tribulation which, to hers, 
were cool. If sanctification begins, as we be- 
lieve, from the hour of regeneration, continu- 
ing through the years of time till the rest of 
eternity is won, then are there many saints 
who have not yet won the white robes and the 
palm branches. 

Years ago her father died, leaving a large 
family in straitened circumstances ; the mo- 
ther, feeble in health, a weak, clinging woman, 
drooped like a vine torn suddenly from an 
oak ; then the elder sister took the father's 
place. She became a support to her mother, 
a comfort to her brothers, a mentor to her sis- 
ters. She had a lover, but lie like herself was 
poor, and years lay between them and mar- 
riage ; so she tore her heart away from 
thoughts that make life beautiful to many wo- 
men, gave him her friendship, but set him free 
from closer bonds, and nobly took up her bur- 
den, forcing back the thoughts of the future 
that might have been which sometimes would 
steal over her. Troubles thickened, trials mul- 
tiplied, clouds deepened and darkened, but she 



104 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

was equal to every emergency. Her smile was 
ever ready, her baud was ever helpful, her soul 
never tired under the load. 

Death entered the household. In seven 
years, six members of the family were reft 
away. The sons, who would have been able by 
their toil to help along and relieve the sister, 
passed away, one by one, under the withering 
influence of consumption ; the household dar- 
ling, the baby of the band, went gayly to 
school one morning, came home with a sore 
pain in his head, and was fain, like the Shu- 
namite's son, to lay it on his mother's lap. 
The next day he was a corpse. 

Then the gifted, talented sister, who had 
studied so faithfully and earnestly to fit herself 
for teaching, who was succeeding so well in her 
profession, fell a victim to consumption, — the 
family scourge, — and the mother, heart-brok- 
en, had not long to wait ere she followed. 
Soon two more, a sister, beautiful as a dream, 
a brother, manly and brave, were summoned 
away. 

Still, through days of discouragement and 



UNCONSCIOUS HEROISM. 105 

weary nights, the sister stood at her post. 
She nursed them one by one, she closed their 
eyes, she placed the flowers in their ice-cold 
hands, she cheered the sad hearts of the nar- 
rowing circle. She was a Christian, and 
through her influence one after another was 
led to the cross. She wept bitter tears, but 
she said, not pnly with her lips, but by her ac- 
tion's, '^ Thy will be done." 

Tell this woman that in her sad, weary life, 
which has never been lifted for a day out of the 
commonplace, which is not very exceptional 
even in its sorrows, there has been anything 
heroic, and she would raise those dark eyes 
in wonder. She has never dreamed of hero- 
ism. She has only done her duty and trusted 
to God. 

When Ann Hasseltine Judson followed the 
steps of her captive husband over the burning 
Indian sands, love lending wings to her bleed- 
ing feet and glorifying her pale face, so that it 
beamed on him in his prison gloom like the 
face of an angel, did she think of being a hero- 
ine ? No ! she was but the woman and the wife, 



106 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

following the Saviour most faithfully, her hus- 
band most tenderly, unconsciously brave and 
great. When Kincaid and his wife, sending 
their little ones home to be educated and cared 
for in a Christian land, called to their return- 
ing brethren as their farewell words, '' Six men 
for Arracan ! " did they mean heroism ? Nay ! 
they thought but of duty and of Christ. 

shades of the departed, of McCheyne 
and Harlan Page, of Havelock and Hedley Vi- 
cars, of Roxana Beecher and Mary Lyon ! The 
world is better for your unconscious greatness, 
your wonderful self-denial, your great throb- 
bing hearts, that were large enough to labor 
for humanity as well as for your homes and 
beloved ones. 

It is a cheering thought that no labor is ever 
in vain. God sees and notes his children, 
wherever they toil, whether in gloomy mines 
under the earth, or in fastnesses of the ever- 
lasting hills ; whether fleeting in the white- 
winged ship over the blue waves of ocean, or 
living from day to day in the whirl of city life. 
No effort passes unseen. The great Captain 
has' his eye ever on the rank and file, and the 



UNCONSCIOUS HEROISM. 107 

priyate has an equal chance with the starred 
and ribboned officer, in the honor-roll of heav- 
en. God sees the struggle and the strife, the 
temptation and the triumph, the hope and the 
happiness, the faith and the fruition. He who 
bent a look from the cross on his mother, weep- 
ing in her agony at its foot, who failed not to 
comfort in that dark hour, will pity and com- 
fort every mother in the world who has need of 
pity. He who whispered pardon and promise 
to the penitent thief will save also " to the ut- 
termost all who come unto God by him." 

There are those who sigh over the degener- 
acy of the times, who lament the prevalence of 
crime, who mourn for the more rigid observ- 
ances of former days. They take only a par- 
tial view. If vice, red-handed, stalks about, 
purity whiter than the snow, peace fairer than 
the lilies, faith shining like the sunlight, are 
also here ; and in God's good time Satan shall 
be bound, error shall hide its head, and the 
millennial glory shall brighten the sky. The 
days are heroic now ! The age is heroic, and 
the light that streams over the working, weary 
world is the light of heaven. 



XXXII. 

FAITH. 

^LINGESTG close in the dark, 
Close to the Master's hand, 
Entering into the ark, 

When floods sweep over the land; 

Casting thine every care 

On One who careth for thee, 
Leaving each gloomy fear 

At the foot of Calvary; 

Calmly falling asleep, 

Like a child on its mother's breast. 
When perils near thee creep, 

And storms have little rest. 

On from cradle to tomb, 

Following Bethlehem's star, 
Discerning through earth's gloom 

The hills of light afar. 
108 



FAITH. 109 

Lifting the heavy cixrss 

With no repining thought: 
His cross was heavier far 

Whose hfe thy pardon bought! 

Still trusting all to Him 

Who well deserves thy love, 

Till the stars of earth grow dim 
In the clearer day above. 




XXXIII. 

THE FIRST SNOW. 

^ HOTJ art falling down so softly o'er the weary- 
earth and wide ; 
Thine airy vesture covers her, hke veil 
around a bride. 
The wild winds catch thy crystals, and fling them 

to and fro, 
And the forest branches tangle them, O fair and 
fleecy snow ! 

Th^ light and happy-hearted are singing songs to 
thee; 

The little children hail thee with mirth and sport- 
ive glee ; 

The merry bells will tinkle on "the icy air of 
night," 

And many an eye will sparkle, and glitter with 
delight. 
110 



THE FIRST SNOW. Ill 

Yet many a tear will quiver on sorrow's pallid 
cheek, 

And many a weary, weary sigh its tale of grief will 
speak. 

To the dreary room of sickness thou art no wel- 
come boon ; 

For the naked and the shivering thou ever art too 
soon. 

The pining captive sees thee, and the culprit from 
his cell ; 

Thou seemest like a dream of heaven, a pure and 
holy spell ; 

And the sleeping conscience waketh, and the burn- 
ing thoughts will roam 

To the brightness and the beauty of boyhood's 
. peaceful home. 

Thou art falling, falling softly, on the little gTave 

so low. 
Where we laid our lost and lovely, one little year 

ago; 
But the robe thou spreadest o'er her is not one 

half so fair 
As that white robe of righteousness our child in 

heaven doth wear. 



112 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Oh, memories of our lost and dear come back to 
us with thee ! 

They spring to greet thy noiseless step with pleas- 
ure's buoyancy ; 

Thou wakest many an echo sweet of dear and far- 
off hours. 

Ere the clustering hopes of friendship had drooped 
like faded flowers. 

Fall gently, gently downward, O fair and fleecy 

snow ! 
And we will watch thy feathery flakes adrifting to 

and fro ; 
And the wayward winds will rock thee, and Earth 

will go to sleep. 
For the Hand that drops thy treasures this little 

world can keep. 



XXXIV. 

COME TO JESUS, 

^ITTLE child, come to Jesus. Jesus wants 
you. He does not care how small you 
are, how weak, how unable to do anything 
great ; he wants you in his kingdom now. 
Can you, little boy, be even a drummer in the 
great army which follows the Captain of our 
salvation ? Then come. Do your task with 
might and main ; work for Jesus now, and he 
will not fail to see you and reward you. Some- 
times your earthly friends forget to tell you 
when you have pleased them, but Jesus never 
forgets to set his seal of peace in your heart 
when you have pleased him. For you he came 
to eartli ; for you he lived and died ; for you 
he stands now in the form of man pleading 
your cause before his Father in heaven. Will 
you not come ? 

8 113 



114 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Maiden, on the threshold of womanhood, 
come to Jesus. You have beauty, talents, a 
happy heart, hands that know how to make 
home attractive, feet that are swift to wait on 
those you love. Christ needs just such as you 
are to help along his work. There are young 
people who will come to him if you do, but 
who heed not when older persons invite them, 
who hear the message of the preacher with un- 
concern. There are mission schools that need 
teachers ; you can not tell how like a sunbeam 
your smiling face will light up some somber 
home where there is labor and pain, but little 
love, — where children and parents alike know 
not the dear Saviour. But you* can not lead 
others to him unless you first come yourself. 
Dear young girl, reach out your hand to grasp 
the hand that was nailed to the cross. It was 
your sin that made the Saviour '' exceeding sor- 
rowful, even unto death." For you he gave 
his precious life. To you he says, "Behold, I 
stand at the door and knock." Shall he knock, 
and will you not open ? Oh, let the Lord of 
glory in ! 



COME TO JESUS. 115 

Husband, wife, come to Jesus. You have 
joined company for a long journey. Part of 
the way shall be very bright. It will be brighter 
still if One who met the disciples on the way 
to Emmaus walk with you. Part of the way 
will doubtless be gloomy, curtained by canopies 
of clouds, lit only by lurid flashes of lightning, 
shut in by sudden storm and night. He who 
walked upon the waves of Galilee, when the 
little ship was tossed like a toy by the tempest, 
will say in the hour of your deep darkness, 
" Peace, be still," if you but come to him. 
Come now. Come together. Let there be no 
division between you at the mercy-seat, at the 
communion table. In the coming time be ye 
both at the right hand in heaven. 

Mother, come to Jesus. Yours is a high, a 
holy charge. You have a vocation but little 
lower than that of the angels. To your hand 
is committed the training of immortal souls 
for the sky. As you live, so will they. Can 
you tell those little ones of the bright world 
above, having yourself no portion there ? Can 
you teach those little lips to lisp of Jesus, to 



116 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

utter words of prayer, if you do not pray ? 
blessed among women ! if fashion, or folly, or 
pride, or the world, has enslaved you, I beg 
you break the chains and come to Jesus. 

Father, come to Jesus ! It is your wish that 
your son should grow up a manly, earnest 
worker in the world. You would have him 
honest and true, brave, ready to go wherever 
duty calls him, quick to answer when his 
country needs men, quick to respond when hu- 
manity demands his services. That boy will be 
ten times the readier, ten times the truer, the 
nobler, if he loves the Lord. Come to Jesus, 
and with you bring your son. The church mil- 
itant is always in need of recruits. 

My heart almost fails me as I say to you, aged 
sinner, '^ Come to Jesus." Not because he is not 
willing to save you even at the latest hour of your 
life, but because Satan has now such a fast hold 
of you that he will not let you go without a ter- 
rible struggle. What ! are you going down, 
with those white hairs, into the arms of death ? 
Will you let the last opportunity pass ; the last 



I 



COME TO JESUS. 117 

day of grace go by ; the last call of mercy fall 
on ears that are deaf? Not so! Oh, come to 
Jesus now! Give him all that is left of your 
life ; all that is left of your energies : try to 
undo what you have been doing for Satan, and 
take upon you his yoke, our Master's. It is 
easy, and his burden is light. 

A Zouave in Finance has lately pretended 
that he has power to work miracles. From 
morning till night his house has been crowded 
and besieged by a multitude of maimed and 
crippled ones, eagerly begging to be cured of 
their infirmities. Upon sg^e he lias wrought 
a partial cure ; upon others, probably upon 
most, his incantations have had no effect. To 
all he has spoken with harsh words, frowns, 
and curses, and there has been no pity in his 
tones when he has sent the disappointed ones 
away. 

Not so does Jesus. To him, too, come every 
day vast processions of the halt, the blind, the 
sin-defiled. He cures every one. He looks 
upon every one with pity. For every one he 



118 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 



has the soft touch, the gentle smile, the word 
of fondest love. None ever sought him and 
were sent away empty. His power, like his 
goodness, is unlimited. Will you not come to 
him? 




XXXV. 

A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT, 

EVERAL years ago, in a room in the up- 
per story of a tenement house in New- 
^^ York city, might have been seen a mother 
and child. Tiie mother was washing ; 
the child was playing about the floor. After a 
while, the child, tiring of its play, climbed up 
by a chair to the window. Like older children, 
it wanted to look away from tlie narrow walls 
of the little world of home into the great world 
outside. But, gazing out upon the wonderful 
sights, it leaned a little too far, lost its balance, 
and the terrified mother turned around just in 
time to see it fall. 

What sight shall meet her eyes ? She does 
not stop to think of the crushed and mangled 
mass which may be all that remains of her poor 
darling. Rushing headlong down the stairs, as 

119 



120 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

if her feet were wings, she receives her child 
from the friend who has picked it up, and, mi- 
raculous as it seems, except a few bruises the 
child is unhurt. No broken limb ; no serious 
injury ; though the infant form fell from so fear- 
ful a hight ! 

Sitting in the doorway, an aged German saw 
the whole occurrence, — a thoughtful man, 
perhaps a Christian ; at all events, one who 
could discern God's providence in this case. 
Taking the pipe from his mouth, he said to the 
pale mother, " Why ! your child must have fal- 
len into the arms of an angel ! " 

Beautiful thought, and true as beautiful ! 
For " He give th his angels charge " concerning 
the little ones that he loves, and sends them 
forth as '' ministering spirits to those who shall 
be heirs of salvation." 




XXXVI. 

THE SHINING SEAL. 
Exodus xxxiv. 29-35. 

^AS it the light of the morning sun 
That fell upon thy brow, 
^t^^ When the eyes of Israel could not look 
^ On its strangely dazzling glow? 

Was it a beam from the opened heaven 

That kissed the mountain fair, 
And, lingering on thy stately head. 

Left its reflection there? 

Oh, no! not these; on that lonely mount, 

By human foot untrod. 
Didst thou hold communion pure and sweet, 

Blest mortal, with thy God ! 

And bowing low at his awful shrine, 

Almost within the veil, 
Thy meek face gathered a radiant light, 

That made earth's sunshine pale. 

121 



122 BOME AND HEAVEN. 

So have we seen the unearthly light 

Like a crown of beauty come, 
When a ransomed spirit has winged its flight 

Up to the heavenly home. 

So have we seen on a Christian's brow 

The sign of the Father's love, 
And we knew that his prayers, half-breathed 
and low, 

Had been heard and answered above. 

Oh, give to us. Father, the shining seal, 

As onward to thee we press, — 
The face that glows from the altar-fire 

Of inward happiness ! 



XXXVII. 

A LITTLE WHILE. 

LITTLE while to toil along 

This weary, winding way, 
And we shall join the ransomed throng, 
And sing the endless choral song, 

In yonder land of day. 

A little while to wonder why 

Our souls so often fall, 
And our dear Lord shall sanctify, 
And take us to his home on high, 

To praise his love for all. 

A little while to pour our love 

On fading forms of clay. 
To weep with tears of bitter grief. 
With anguish that hath no reUef, 

And death shall die for aye. 

123 



124 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

A little while to scatter smiles, 

Like sunbeams, on our way, 
With willing heart and kindly hand 
To help the lonely, outcast band, — 

To wait and watch and pray. 

A little while to do the task 

Our Master's hand hath given; 
Fast fleet away the hours of grace, 
Night falleth on our dwelling-place, — 
Short space to work for heaven! 

A little while to face the storm 

And breast the angry billow. 
And Christ shall whisper, "Peace, be still!" 
And, ransomed by our Lord's sweet will, 

His breast shall be our pillow. 

A little while! Heed well, my soul. 
Those words of love and warning. 
That, ere thou reach the appointed goal. 
Thou go to Christ and be made whole. 
And meet for heaven's bright morning. 



XXXVIII. 

THE PET LAMB. 

fN Judaea, the shepherds as they lead their 
flocks from field to field call each sheep 
^ by name. Our Saviour alludes to this in 
the beautiful tenth chapter of John, where 
he says, '' He calleth his own sheep by name, 
and leadeth them out." 

Some in the flock are more affectionate and 
dutiful than others. They cling close to the 
shepherd. They linger near him, and feed be- 
neath his eye. Others love to wander, and 
they often forsake the rest, and lose them- 
selves in dark paths and tangled wilds, where 
it troubles the shepherd to find them. But the 
shepherd does not care for trouble. Up and 
down, here and there, he searches, parting 
the brambles to look between them, peeping 

125 



126 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

through thick screens of matted foliage, seek- 
ing till he discovers the truant. 

If again it wanders the shepherd has a last 
resource. He lifts the little lamb in his arms, 
and the mother-sheep wanders no more, but 
follows closely by his side, looking up to the 
fair head and soft eyes that hide against his 
shoulder. 

So our Good Shepherd leads his flock. When 
one of its number, forgetting the infinite ten- 
derness, the wonderful love of the Gentle One, 
goes seeking after earthly pleasures, he reaches 
down his hand, and takes,, one of its choicest 
possessions away. Where your treasure is, 
there will your heart be. 

Mother, is your home lonely, because the 
little foot that made such music in it has gone 
to patter across the starry floor of heaven ? 
— because in dreams of the night you catch 
glimpses of the radiant eyes that once smiled 
brightly into your own, of clustering curls that 
you twined often round a brow that now is 
dust ? — because your fairest bud is broken ? 



THE PET LAiMB. 127 

" There is no flock, however watched and tended. 
But one dead lamb is there ; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. 
But has one vacant chair." 

When Christ sees his ransomed ones forsak- 
ing the shelter of his fold, he wooes them to 
himself by taking their idols to lie in his bosom. 
Heaven is the nearer and dearer when a pet 
lamb is there. 

From many a little Sabbath-school circle a 
dear one has gone to walk the hills of light. 
Teacher, have any gone from you ? Let their 
memory return to you as a charm, alluring you 
often to devotion. Love those who are left the 
more tenderly, and let there be a touch of 
awe as you minister to those of whom the 
Lord hath said, " Of such is the kingdom of 
heaven!" 



XXXIX. 

NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. 

fSj HAVE nothing to live for ! " said one. 
'-> Yet she was a woman of real worth, 
TO an earnest Christian, full of faith and of 
good works. Children had grown up 
around her, to call her blessed. Her pleasant 
smile made sunshine in her home. Her place 
in God's house was seldom vacant. Her 
prayers often ascended to the throne of grace. 
Why then the exclamation, ^' Nothing to live 
for!" 

Many sorrows had been her portion. Hardly 
a year in her life had been without its dark 
page. The little one she had lulled to rest in 
her bosom had taken its flight to the angels. 
The husband of her youth had been called from 
her side, and she was going down to the winter 
of age without a companion. 

128 



NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. 129 

Sickness, too, brought her many weary days 
and nights ; and, when lonely and discouraged, 
she cried, "- 1 have nothing to live for ! " 

Another cried, " Oh, that death would come! 
All I loved is gone ; life is drearier than the 
tomb ; I have nothing now to live for ! " 

Not that the experience of long years had 
been hers, but suddenly, like a thunder-cloud 
in a tranquil sky, a crushing grief had come 
over her, and her heart lay shuddering in the 
dust. Then it gave forth the desolate wail, 
feeling as though hope and love were gone 
from it for ever. 

A father uttered the same mournful plaint. 
He had walked honor-crowned over many a 
league in life's journey. No stain attached to 
his fair fame. Prosperity was his constant at- 
tendant. At his touch every enterprise seemed 
to turn to gold. But his first-born, the son of 
his love, had disgraced the name he bore. The 
finger of scorn had been uplifted, and the 
whisper of contempt had gone forth against his 
boy, and his spirit bent beneath the stroke with 
the cry, '' Nothing to live for ! " 
9 



130 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Auotlier, iii the prime of life, exclaimed, '' I 
have nothing to live for ! " He had wasted his 
youthful hours in riotous living, and the apples 
of Sodom had proved bitter to his taste. The 
cups which he quaffed with gay companions, 
the songs he had sung in hours of merriment, 
left no sweet memory, no silvery-falling echo. 
Yet what rest was there in the grave for one 
who had neglected to make his peace with 
God! ■ > 

Let us not say, " We have nothing to live 
for ! " Life is glorious ; it is sublime. Not 
to us all may it be a woof of shimmering light ; 
not to us all a long, happy success. We must 
take what God sends. We must do what he 
appoints. It is as if the father had gone out 
for the day, giving each child his piece of work 
to do in his absence : to the elder and stronger 
the larger plot to weed; to the younger and 
feebler the little spot to care for ; yet to every 
one his task. So has our Father in heaven set 
us our task, and the tiniest hand may do its 
share. 



NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. 131 

' Wherever in the world I am, 
In whatsoe'er estate, 
I have a fellowshii^ with hearts 

To keep and cultivate. 
And a work of lowly love to do 
For the Lord, on whom I wait." 




XL. 

FROM DAY TO DAY. 

^ROM day to day, O Father, help us on ! 

Help lis, thy children, far from home and 
lost; 
Stoop down in mercy from the great white 
throne, 
And succor us, the sad and tempest-tost. 

We ask no angel voice to cheer the gloom, 
No angel eyes, like stars, to light the dark; 

Alone to thee we come for grace or doom. 
To thee, our God, the saints' eternal Ark. 

Father, we seek no lavish store of strength ; 

Oh ! drop by drop, our daily needs supply, 
TiB, guided up to Paradise at length, 

We thirst no more, the living waters nigh ; — 

Strength every day to live the evil down 

That struggles in these human hearts of ours ; 
132 



FROM DAY TO DAY. 133 

To bear the cross, in hope to wear the crown, 
All wreathed and gemmed by sweet immortal 
flowers ; — 

Strength day by day to reach a helping hand 
To some whose lot is darker than om* own, — 

Poor, sin-sick souls, like wrecks upon the strand, 
For whom our Saviour suffered to atone ; — 

Strength, day by day, to weep with those who 
weep. 
And more to smile with those whose hearts are 

gay; 

With love unselfish, sweet, intense, and deep, 
To scatter blessings over all the way. 

O Father ! reach thy hand and clasp our own ; 

Soft shelter us when evening shadows fall ; 
By thorny paths we climb, with mtoy a moan. 

But thou, dear Lord, canst rest and save us all. 



XLI. 

SPRING AT PETERSBURG, i 



'HERE'S a golden tide of sunshine 
Flooding all beneath my feet, 
And the air around is thrilling 
With a thousand murmurs sweet; 
For the spring-time, like a mother, 

Nurseth with a lullaby, 
With a rippling, low-voiced laughter, 
For her children passing by. 

All the fields are starred with daisies. 

All the mounds are flushed with bloom, 
And the winds that stir the branches 

Waft a subtile, soft perfume; 
All the furrowed earth is heaving. 

Pulsing with awakening life, — 
Nature's kindly hand retrieving 

What she lost in days of strife. 
134 



I 



SPBIXG AT PETERSBURG. 135 

Ah! the Spring when last she faltered 

On the Appomattox shore 
Hid her face and stayed her footsteps 

From the bruised and blackened floor, 
Scarred and crushed, and torn and trampled, 

By the iron foot of war. 
Till the sad earth moaned and shivered 

'^eath the weight of graves she bore ! 

Then these silent meadows echoed 

Bugle-call and beat of drum. 
And the distant cannon's thunder, 

Where to-day the wild bees hum, — 
All along the line the rattle 

Of the deadly Minie ball. 
And the eddying waves of battle, 

Surging round yon low earth-wall! 

Here where springs the scented clover 

Stood the ranks of loyal blue. 
Each his country's fearless lover. 

Hero-hearted, brave and true ! 
Here where these white bones are bleaching, 

'I^eath the sifted yellow clay, 
Patriot sons of patriot mothers 

Gave their bright young lives away. 



136 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

It is over! Flag of Freedom, 

With thy stars thine own once more, 
Hath thy red a rosier tinting 

For the deadly baptism o'er; 
Hath thy white a purer luster, 

For the saints ascended high; 
Hath thy field of star-gemmed azure 

Lovelier halo of the sky! 

Croon, young mother, croon thy sweetest 

Lullabies o'er timid flowers, 
In thy balmy wind-rocked cradle 

Nurse the laughing April hours. 
Softly weave a pall of beauty 

O'er the soldier's nameless grave ; 
Coax the frightened birds to duty, — - 

Seas of music, wave on wave! 

Thanks for those whom baby fingers 

Wake to-day at reveille. 
Brave, broad-chested, sun-burnt heroes. 

Glad once more at home to be! 
Glad that sweet good-nights and kisses 

Beat for them the night's tattoo. 
While a grateful country utters 

Blessings on the boys in blue! 



XLII. 

BY THE WAYSIDE, 

fF I only had opportunity, I might do a 
great deal of good," is often the unspoken 
W thought which comes up in the heart after 
reading or hearing of some life nobly spent. 
And so we sit still with folded hands, waiting 
for opportunities that never come, and the sick 
and the halt pass by us unseen, and our brother 
goes on his way with a despairing heart. 

There are flowers that are wonders of beauty, 
graceful in form, luxuriant in growth, and dyed 
with the tints of the rainbow. But they re- 
quire very careful culture. The atmosphere 
must be nicely tempered for them, the earth 
must be specially prepared, the sun and the 
rain must be watched in their turn. And there 
are little, lonely flowers that spring up here and 
there in wild, uncultivated fields, lifting their 

137 



138 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

pretty heads and struggling up to the sunshine 
throvigh rank grass and weeds, or smiling out 
from the dust}^ border of the highway, — flowers 
that have no care but God's, and bloom for no- 
body in particular, yet scatter fragrance for 
all who come near them. The daisies, the but- 
tercups, the dandelions, — the poorest child may 
gather them unchecked, and learn a new les- 
son of love and beauty from their fair forms. 
In the lovely Soutliern woods and along the 
roadside, in April the yellow jasmin hangs its 
bell-like flowers from every fence and tree ; its 
luxuriant foliage and glorious bloom making 
the poorest hut in the woods beautiful as a pal- 
ace. You may meet young girls and little 
children with arms full of the exqiii^te blos- 
soms ; little black boys and girls, who can ad- 
mire the beautiful quite as much as white chil- 
dren can, are not unfrequently seen laden with 
the same sweet burden. 

Our doings for the Master should be as lav- 
ish, as generous, as unpremeditated, as these 
flowers by the wayside. We ought not to wait 
for great opportunities. Little ones are wait- 



BY THE WAYSIDE. 139 

ing for us. If traveling, as so many of us do, 
there may come to us on car, or steamboat, or 
stage, a way to speak a word for Jesus, or to 
perform a kind action in his name. He will 
not despise it if it be only a '' cup of cold wa- 
ter." It may be \}i\q dropping of a little tract, 
or the word of sympathy for a mourner. A tired 
child may be won by a story, or a sugar-plum, 
or both, for one will open the way for the other. 
A worn-out mother may be helped by a strong 
hand that will relieve her for a little while of 
her baby. A sick person may be aided or 
clieered, an aged one may be watched over and 
guided tenderly. 

If at home, a hundred times a day the soft 
word may be spoken, the fond caress or the 
loving hand-clasp given to help others over the 
hard places of life. One can not be too careful 
to let his light shine at home. The Christian 
should be consistent, loving, earnest, in the 
family circle, most surely. When we see pa- 
rents setting before their children by their daily 
lives the beauty of holiness, we shall see chil- 
dren coming sooner to Christ. When children 



140 HOME AN^D HEAVEN. 

who have found Christ before their parents 
submit themselves to their parents in all godli- 
ness and honesty, we shall see parents inquiring 
for the way of life, and pressing in after their 
children. It is the wayside flower that blooms 
earliest, and lasts longest, and comforts the 
greatest number of hearts. 

In the Hospital of the Foundlings attached 
to the Gray Nunnery in Montreal, I once saw a 
little girl about twelve years of age, who had 
lost, through a fever, the use of her feet. For 
two years she had not been able to take a step, 
and could only move about in a wheeled chair. 
I asked one of the attendants whether she was 
patient, for there was an almost angelic expres- 
sion on that little face, telling of suffering 
borne without complaint. "Yes," said the 
nurse, " she never murmurs ; she has learned 
of the good Lord." 

That little Catholic child, a foundling, who 
had never known father's care or mother's love, 
taught me a lesson by the wayside. Through 
my summer journeyings I carried with me in 
my memory a picture of those serene eyes, 



BY THE WAYSIDE. 141 

that gentle mouth, and the busy hands knitting 
socks, while the helpless feet rested against the 
chair that some kind friend had given, and if 
vexed or troubled I thought how that waif, 
with the sweet soul shut in the frail body, had 
learned of ''the good Lord." 

" The good Lord ! " He is good indeed ; not 
only to his children, but to " the unthankful 
and to the evil." He crowns our lives with 
mercies, and we too often forget to praise him. 
In the language of the old Scotch version of 
the Psalms, quamt but ever dear, let us sing, — 

" For, oh 1 the Lord our God is good. 
His mercy is for ever sure ! 
His truth at all times firmly stood. 
And shall from age to age endure." 



XLIII. 

DON'T TELL MOTHER. 

|ON'T tell mother," I heard a bright-look- 
ing boy say, as he ran with nimble feet to 
join the crowd which was rushing to a fire. 
The excitement, the eager comments of 
boys and men, and the strange yearning after 
the forbidden which is natural to us all, drew 
the boy away from home ; but, as he went, he 
remembered her prohibition, and exclaimed, 
" Don't tell mother." 

A good mother is a gift for which to thank 
God for ever. A mother's kiss, a mother's gen- 
tle care, — what have they not done for us all ? 
When I hear young lips say, ^' Don't tell mo- 
ther," I tremble for the speaker. The act which 
will not bear the scrutiny of a mother's love 
will shrink into shame at the look of God. 
Feet that begin life by going where a mother 

142 



DON'T TELL MOTHER. 143 

has forbidden will not easily learn to walk in 
the narrow way marked out by the ten com- 
mandments. ^' Don't tell mother," has been 
onQ of the devil's recruiting sergeants for thou- 
sands of years. From disregard at home of tlie 
mother's rule springs at last disregard of the 
laws that defend society and redeem the land 
from barbarism. The boy who disobeys his 
mother, and hides it, has taken his first step 
down hill. 

It is better and safer always to tell mother. 
Who so forgiving as she ? Who so faithful ? 
Who so patient ? Through nights of weary 
watching, through days of anxiety, through 
sickness and health, a mother's love is unfailing. 
It is a fountain that never freezes in the coldest 
time, and never evaporates under tropical suns. 
The. love that watches over the cradle is the 
one earthly thing that nothing can wear out. 
It will survive the roughest vicissitudes, and 
outlive the most unkind neglect. It has ever 
been the crowning glory of a good man, that 
he reverences his mother. Happy they who 
early learn to appreciate and confide in her ! 



144 HOME AND HEAVEN, 

A mother's prayers gave John Newton to 
Christianity ; a mother's consecration gave tlie 
Wesleys to the cross. What mothers have done 
for civilization and religion, what they have 
written in letters of light on the historic page, 
what the recording angel has written for them 
in the book above, is only known to God. 
Never, my young friend, perform any act which 
you must preface with '' Don't tell mother." 



XLIV. 

HOW HAPPY I'LL BE. 

LITTLE one sat amid the flowers, 
In the bkish and bloom of childhood's 
Q>^ hours ; 

^ She twined the buds in a garland fair, 
And bound them up in her shining hair. 
"Ah me!" said she, "how happy I'll be, 
When just ten years have gone over me. 
And I am a maiden, with youth's bright glow 
Flushing my cheek and lighting my brow!" 

A maiden mused in a pleasant room. 
Where the air was filled with a soft perfume; 
Vases were near of antique mold. 
Beautiful pictures, rare and old. 
And she, of all the loveliness there. 
Was loveliest far, and exceeding fair. 
"Ah me!" said she, "how happy I'll be. 
When my heart's true love comes back to me ; 
When I proudly stand by my dear one's side, 
In the thrilling joy of a happy bride!" 
10 145 



146 • HOME A^D HEAVEN. 

A mother bent o'er the cradle nest 
Where she soothed her babe to his smiling rest ; 
She watched the sleep of her cherub boy, 
And her fond heart thrilled with exultant joy; 
"Ah me!" said 'she, "how happy I'll be 
When he reaches manhood proud and free; 
When the world bows down, in rapture wild, 
At the earnest words of my darling child ! " 

An aged one sat by the cozy hearth, 
Counting life's sands as they ebbed from earth; 
Feeble and frail, the race she run 
Had borne her along to the setting sun. 
"Ah me!" said she, "how happy I'll be. 
When from time's long fever my soul is free; 
When the world fades out with its weary strife, 
And I soar away to a better life ! " 

'Tis thus we journey from youth to age, 
Longing to turn to another page. 
Striving to hasten the years away. 
Lighting our hearts with the future's ray. 
Hoping on earth, till its visions fade, 
Wishing and waiting through sun and shade, 
Turning, when earth's last tie is riven. 
To the rest that remains in a fadeless heaven. 



f§ 



XLV. 

HUMILITY, 

MAY not be a brilliant star, 

To point the wanderer's way 
Up to the realms of light afar. 
The realms of endless day; 
But I may be a little lam]), 

With flickering light and low, 
To guide the children of the camp 
Away from death and woe. 

I may not be a diadem, 

To wreathe the Saviour's brow. 
But I may be a little gem 

Upon his bosom now. 
The brighter jewels he may wear 

Where once the thorns had part; 
I'd gladly look upon them there. 

But hide me in his heart. 

147 



148 HOME AND HE A] EN. 

I may not be a queenly flower, H 

Within the garden's bound, 
Nor in some green and stately bower 

Imperial be found. 
I'd rather be a violet, 

With a pure and dewy eye. 
To lie where all may be forgot, 

Save Him who dwells on high. 

I may not win a martyr's crown. 

Nor wear a victor's palm ; 
I'd be a lowly gatherer 

Of Gilead's fragrant balm. 
Nor star, nor diadem, nor bloom, 

Thy little one may be, — 
Yet all the light, the sweet perfume, 

Dear Lord, shall be for thee! 




HEADING THE BIBLE. 



w 



XLVI. 

BO YOU READ YOUR BIBLE? 

3 DO not ask whether you have read the 
last volume of poems, over which critics 
are quarreling and opinions divided, while 
a few are being gladdened by the poet's 
life-songs. I do not ask whether you have 
read the history of the last century, or the 
newspaper, tliat gives you the throbbing, warm, 
wonderful history of to-day ; but. Have you 
read, do you habitually read, your Bible ? 

It took over fourteen hundred years to write 
that best of books, and to its pages, each in- 
spired of God, kings and soldiers, statesmen 
and lawgivers, prophets and apostles, fishermen 
and scholars, — each brought tlieir tribute. 
It contains biography, history, poetry, and nar- 
rative. It has advice to help you in every 
strait ; it has comfort for your darkest hour ; 

149 



150 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

it is a guide to the New Jerusalem. Other 
books have been lost in the seething stream of 
time ; this has been miraculously preserved. 
Other books have visited a few ; this has gone 
to the ends of the earth. It has been equally 
precious to the king on his throne, and to the 
peasant in his hut. It has strengthened the 
martyr when the fires of death were hot in 
his face ; it has been the tocsin and the pan- 
oply of the reformer in every age. Do you 
read it ? 

I hope there is no dust on its covers, my 
friend. I hope its leaves bear the marks of 
much usage. I should be loth to see them 
fresh from the printer's hand. If you love it 
you will read it every day, you will pray over 
it every night. 



XLYII. 

PEACE. 

jMID the heat and fever and bustle of life, 
Christ has here and there placed foun- 
tains which ever spring up fresh and free 
to cool tlie thirst of his weary followers. 
The clearest of them all is that one over which, 
with his own hand, the Lord has written 
"Peace." It flows straight down from the 
river of life. It is not turbulent or noisy. 
Its silvery waters speed on with a soft sound, 
like the south wind over flowers. 

" Peace I leave with you ; my peace I give unto 
you ; not as the world giveth give I unto you." 
Eighteen centuries have passed since the sweet 
words fell from the lips of the Redeemer and 
dropped like balm into the hearts of his disci- 
ples. Since then how many weary ones have 
they comforted ! How many tears have they 

151 



152 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

dried ! How many death-beds have tliey 
cheered ! How many pilgrims to Zion have 
they helped all through a stormy life, over a 
tempestuous Jordan, and up at last to the shin- 
ing gates of the New Jerusalem ! No child of 
God need be without this glorious gift. Christ 
left it for us all, and the weakest has but to 
reach forth his hand and pluck the sweet flower 
of peace, and wear it henceforward in his 
bosom. Even in the valley of humiliation, 
where the shadows are thick and long, and the 
sunlight struggles through clouds of mist, 
down low among the sweet green mosses and 
the waving grass shall be found the plant 
" heart's-ease," which is but a seedling of 
peace. 

Christ gives not as the world gives. The 
world never filled a bright cup but a drop of 
bitterness dashed it. She never tempted a 
man up a toilsome road, holding the while in 
his sight a glittering wreath of laurel, but it 
faded and withered when within his grasp. 
She has no treasures which the moth and rust 
can not corrupt, or the thief. Time, can not 



PEACE. 158 

steal. She never comforted a soul in the an- 
guish of bereavement, or bore it triumphantly 
through the agony of death. 

But thy peace, dear Jesus, can lighten the 
heaviest load, can cheer the darkest hour, can 
sustain in the pressure of trial and defeat. It 
makes beautiful the twilight of this world ; it 
will glorify the noon of the next. 




XLVIII. 

LINES 





SUGGESTED BY THE SENDIKG OF A BELL, BY THE CHILDRETST OF 
KEV. DE. PORTER'S CHURCH, WILLIAMSBURG, TO DR. SCUDDER'S 
CHURCH, INDIA. 



^E send this bell across the sea with many a 
fervent prayer, 
And bid its silvery accents swell forth on 
the spicy air, 
Where tropic suns in glory shine, and tropic breezes 

play. 
We bid this missionary-bell go on its blessed way. 

Oh, heavy is the cloud that lies o'er all that sunny 
land! 

The people sit in darkness deep ; not yet they know 
the hand 

That ever guides the Christian's way, though tem- 
pests round him roll. 

And safely to a better home lifts up the pardoned 
soul. 

154 



LINES OX SENDING A BELL. 155 

We, little children, happy here in this our " Sab- 
bath home," 

Would have the little dark-eyed ones to Jesus' 
kingdom come ; 

And when our pleasant Sabbath bell peals on the 
quiet air. 

We'll think that holy sounds they hear, in that far 
country there. 

Oft as our gift, with silver tongue, in far Nellore 

rings. 
May some poor wanderer be lured to Christ the 

King of kings ; 
And when our folded hands are clasped across the 

silent breast. 
Still may its constant call go forth, to bid the 

weary rest. 

Go, speak for Him who came to save, in India, as 

here, — 
Ring out thy loud unwavering call, without a 

thought of fear ; 
And blessed thou, and blessed we, O bell, if o'er 

the sea 
One little child shall hear thy voice, and bow to 

Christ the knee. 



XLIX. 

O NWA RD. 

jROTHER, be brave! for thy foes gather 
round thee. 
Foes of thy Captam, thy banner, thine all ! 
Spirits of evil, unseen, hover o'er thee, 
Constantly striving to tempt and appall. 
Jesus hath promised his presence to guide thee ; 
He will sustain thee when dangers come fast ; 
Faint not nor falter, whatever betide thee. 
So that life's battle end nobly at last ! 

Brother, be earnest ! Each day sweeping onward 

Beareth its freight to eternity's shore ; 
Perishing souls, on the tide drifting outward, 

Sadly thy j^rayers and thy warnings implore ! 
Once they have passed o'er the desolate river. 

Once they have touched on the desolate strand, 
Quenched is hope's torchlight for ever and ever, 

Shut the bright doors of the beautiful land. 
156 



ONWARD. 157 

Brother, be active ! N'ew duties shall meet thee, 

Waiting, like angels, to bless thee again ; 
Sentinel-like, every milestone shall greet thee, 

Telling of pleasure to pay for thy j^ain. 
Pause not to rest while thy life-task is weaving ; 

Bind in thy sorrows hke dews of the morn ; 
Softly they'll shine, till, earth's ante-room leaving, 

Star-like thy heavenly crown they'll adorn. 

Brother, be happy ! thy Saviour is near thee, 

Closer and truer than friend of the earth ; 
With thee when wandering, from peril to bear thee, 

With thee to lighten thy home and thy hearth. 
Arms everlasting, thy frail form embracing, 

Bear thee so gently, when tempests are wild ; 
Whispers of mercy, the tempter displacing. 

Strengthen the warrior and comfort the child. 

Brother, be hopeful! thy home draweth nearer; 

There thou shalt lay thy worn armor all down ; 
Rest where the water of life floweth clearer. 

Cast off the sandals, and bind on the crown. 
Onward, then. Christian ! faint not, nor be weary ; 

Onward till trials and conflicts are past, — 
^^ Onward 1 " thy watchword, inspiring and cheery. 

True to thy Saviour, and true to the last. 



L. 

WE ARE NOT OUR OWN. 

^^^OT our own ! These bodies rejoicing in 
^\ vigor, hands the trained slaves of the 
^^ will, feet springing with buoyant step up 
the steepest path, hearts keeping time 
with regular pulsations to the march of the 
hours, — all are but treasures lent, which the 
owner can recall when he pleases. This mag- 
nificent home in which we dwell, canopied l)y 
the skies, templed by the eternal hills, and 
adorned by the rich variety of forest, glen, and 
stream, is not our own. Our beloved ones, fa- 
thers, mothers, sisters, friends, children, are 
gifts from Him who kept not back from us his 
own only Son, but freely yielded him to atone 
for our sin. 

Our inner selves, these deatliless spirits, heav- 
ing to and fro with their wild aspirations and 

158 



WE ARE NOT OUR OWN. 159 

tumultuous hopes, — even they are the breath of 
the Almighty, and the noblest endowment of 
his love. 

Our time is not our own. The golden mo- 
ments, fleeting one by one away, the hours, ful- 
filling their mission, and gliding by as swift and 
silent as the snow, the long bright summer days, 
the cheery winter nights, are all tablets on which 
we write words for eternity. 

Their pages come to us pure and white. 
They leave us stained by sin, blotted by sorrow, 
crushed by discontent. 

Precious time ! Season of preparation for an 
endless future ! What lamentations shall be 
uttered for thee in the dark land of the lost ! 

Our way is not our own. Vv^hat a comfort 
to know that our steps are ordered, and whether 
they tread the burning sand of the desert, or 
sink in the mire of tlie marsh, or trip through 
bowers of bloom, they are following our Cap- 
tain, and leading home at last. 

Our efforts, our aims, our talents, our all, be- 
long to God. 

Not our own ! Changing, day by day, from 



160 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

the vigor of youth to the weakness of later life, 
burying fondest friendships in the grave, droop- 
ing at last like withered leaves, — the thought 
should be a talisman of hope. For it is but a 
step from death to glory, — and then-white robes 
and waving palms ! What song from among the 
host of the redeemed will sound so sweet as 
this? — 

'^ Not our own, bought with a price, — even 
the precious blood of Christ ! " 




LI. 

LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 

EE how these Christians love one another ! " 
was the involuntary testimony of many of 
^^ their persecutors in the dark days of Pa- 
ganism. Alas that it can not be our wit- 
ness now ! It is the burden of Christ's teach- 
ing, that we love our neighbor as ourselves. 
His own life was a long evangel of love, from 
the hour when the angels sang his advent to 
the sad hour when from the cross he cried, — 
" It is finished." Every action in that wonder- 
ful life of God with us is luminous with love. 
He knew no stain of selfishness, no shade of 
anger, no sneer of contempt, through all 
the years of the Redeemer's mission below; 
^' Tempted in all points as we are," the Holy 
One was always without sin. Lovingly he gave 
sight to the blind, lovingly he healed the sick, 

U 161 



162 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

lovingly he forgave sins. He bore patiently the 
waywardness of Peter, and spoke words of 
hope to the penitent thief. From first to last, 
love throbs in every act of Jesus' life. 

Tradition tells us of John, that when the 
feebleness of extreme age was upon him, and he 
could no longer speak to his beloved flock the 
truths of God, he was wont to rise in their pres- 
ence, and say, " Little children, love one an- 
other ! " 

While our natures are so imperfect, and our 
wills so often conflict with our duty, we must 
expect difierence of opinion and of expression 
among Christians. But it is surely wrong for 
those who sit around one table of the Lord, and 
hope for salvation in a common Redeemer, to 
cherish the seeds of dissension and estrange- 
ment. It is sad indeed when members of the 
same church are kept apart by feelings of un- 
kindness, paralyzing the efforts of the pastor, 
and grieving away the Spirit of God. 

At the foot of the cross, every strife should be 
buried, every bitter voice should be hushed. 



LOVE ONE ANOTHER, 163 

The waves of everlasting love should overwhelm 
all envy and hatred. Loving Christ, we ought 
also to love the brethren. " He that loveth not 
knoweth not God, for God is love." 




III. 

A S S URA NC E_, 

KNOW that my Father in heaven 
Hath a tender care for me; 

I know that my name is graven 
On his heart from eternity. 

I know that he chargeth his angels 

To guide my every step ; 
He heareth my prayer so feeble, 

Ere it falters on my lip. 

I know that he sees my folly, 

My sins of every day, — 
Each evil thought in my spirit, 

Each careless word I say. 

As a father oft chastiseth 

The child he loveth best, 
Then pitieth him and forgiveth, 

And holdeth to his breast, — 

164 



ASSURANCE, 165 

So God, my Father in heaven, 
Metes out my joys and fears, 

Now gives me bread of gladness, 
Now bitter wine of tears. 

I can never doubt his goodness, 

I can ever trust his love; 
By a cord that can not sever 

I am bound to the home above. 

So, joyously on my journey 

Henceforth I walk by faith; 
He will give me fuller vision 

On the other side of death. 

I know that my Father in heaven 

Hath a tender care for me; 
I know that my name is graven 

On his heart from eternity. 



LIII. 

NO NIGHT THERE. 

:jO night in the better land, 
No bitter night of woe ! 
No weary march o'er the desert sand, 
While the shadows come and go. 

No sighs in the better land, 

No sighs o'er hidden grief. 
No joys to drop from the trembling hand, 

As beautiful as brief 



No tears in the better land, 

Falling in burning rain; 
For the Father's gentle and loving hand 

Shall banish weeping and pain. 

But light in the better land ; 

Light on the crystal sea; 
Light flashing back from the golden sand. 

Light in the spirits free! 
166 



NO NIGHT THERE. 167 

And songs in the better land, 

Swelling out loud and clear. 
To the Saviour, whose strong, protecting hand 

Hath brought his ransomed here. 

Bhss in the better land, 

Undimmed by the shivering dread 
Of an hour of parting close at hand, 

Of the farewell tears to shed. 

Rapture and fullest peace. 

In the land of light and love ; 
Glory for ever to increase, — 

Night entereth not above ! 



LIT. 

APT TO TEACH J PATIENT, 

HE pictui*es of inspiration are perfect. 
Still fair and glowing in tint and hue, still 
matchless in outline, still grand and sub- 
lime in their depth of meaning, they shine 
through the mist of ages, as beautiful and un- 
dimmed as at first. The sweet words of love 
and cheer, the pure messages of duty, the 
trumpet-calls of faith, and the angelic whispers 
of hope, have been swept along by the winds 
and waves of many centuries, yet they thrill 
upon our hearts to-day, as silvery sweet, as 
stainlessly pure, as when they were first spoken. 
" Apt to teach ; patient." These four words 
are a gospel to every earnest teacher. Their 
first lesson is one of love, — love for the work, 
love for the young, love for souls, and love for 
Christ. The teacher should be kind ; pleasant 

168 



APT TO TEACH; PATIENT. 169 

words should drop from his lips, and sunny 
smiles flit over his face. Flowers flourish in 
the sunshine. Human buds and blossoms lift 
up their bright heads and thrive in the light of 
happiness and affection. That knowledge is 
best learned and lingers latest which is heralded 
into memory by the gentle tones and endearing 
looks of sympathy and love. Deep in the teach- 
er's heart should spring the fountains of faith 
in the Saviour and love for him. He should 
yearn to see the children early pressing into 
the ranks of the church militant, early taking 
up the cross, early starting in the narrow way 
that leads to happiness and heaven. 

Aptitude for the work requires and implies 
preparation for its duties. They who would 
teach well must be taught of God. As Mc- 
Cheyne was wont to say, they should bring 
"beaten oil" to fill the lamps of the sanctuary. 
They should prepare the lessons they would 
impart, in the seclusion of the home and the 
still retreat of the closet. Earnest study and 
faithful prayer are the two grand explanations 



170 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

of many a beloved teacher's aptness and suc- 
cessfulness in teaching. 

Be patient with the restlessness and thoiight- 
lessness of cliildhood, tlie irrepressible gayety 
of youth. Chide gently the happy one who has 
not yet felt the touch of sorrow's hand, or the 
dark shade of disappointment. Evil days lie in 
wait for us all, and storm-clouds shall drop 
over our daily path, ere the weary feet shall 
reach the setting sun. 

Joy is the peculiar treasure of early youth, 
and its frequent outbreaks should be gently 
guided, never impatiently reproved. 

Be patient too with the forgetfulness that is 
so trying to the teacher, and which seems in- 
bred in children. Those seeds of truth which 
we, in our blindness, think were cast into stony 
ground, sometimes sink deeper than we think. 
They are lost to sight, but they are buried in 
the soil. In God's time they will spring up and 
bear fruit. In the heat of the noonday or in 
the soft decline of evening, others will sit un- 
der the grateful shadow of the trees which long 



APT TO TEACH; PATIENT. 171 

ago were planted, perhaps in weariness, per- 
haps in despair. 

Be patient in waiting for results. Not always 
does he that plows or. he that sows behold the 
golden fields ripe and waving for the harvest- 
home. Not always does he who begins the 
battle bravely live to see the redoubts stormed, 
and the flag of his love floating in triumph 
over prostrate foes. Ours to work, — Christ's to 
win ! Ours the darkness here, the bliss here- 
after. Well may we wait for it ! 



LV. 

BOOKS IN THE HOUSE. 

j^, HOUSE without books is but half fur- 
nished. It may be up to the highest 
standard in its upholstery, curtains of 
the richest lace may drop from ceiling 
to floor, articles of the rarest bijouterie may be 
scattered in lavish profusion in every room, but 
if there be no food for the mind there is a pain- 
ful lack in the house, were it a palace. 

Most of us can remember some occasion 
when we found ourselves stranded in an ele- 
gant parlor, among chairs, tables, and sofas, 
and never a book in sight. How slowly the 
half hour droned itself out, while with impa- 
tient ear we listened to an occasional foot over- 
head, or a silken rustle on the stair, while still 
our friend tarried in the unknown regions above 
us ! But this is a mere nothing, compared to 

172 



BOOKS IN THE HOUSE. 173 

the desolation of being storm-bound for a day 
or a week in the domains of a nice housekeeper 
who dislikes a litter of papers and magazines, 
and who only tolerates, in the book-line, a set 
of touch-me-nots in morocco and gilding, which 
mount guard on the center-table. These are 
not unlike our grandmothers' parlors, very dig- 
nified and formal, but with an unmistakable 
company-air about them that frightens ordi- 
nary people away. 

One especial house occurs to me in this 
connection. It is a large, well-to-do house in 
the country ; white, with green shutters, and 
a broad, inviting porch. Its barns and out- 
houses are numerous, and bursting with plenty. 
Around it well tilled fields smile in the sun- 
shine, and seed-time and harvest follow each 
other like virtue and its reward. Inside, the 
appointments are luxurious; but the people are 
not literary, and the only books the house can 
boast are Baxter's Call, Pilgrim's Progress, 
and Fox's Book of Martyrs, with an odd vol- 
ume of Irving's Life of Washington, forgotten 
-there by some student-friend. 



174 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

What a treasure it was to find an old trunk 
in the garret of this domicile, filled with news- 
papers of a by-gone time, — prominent among 
them a number of Observers and Intelligen- 
cers ! 

Next to having no books in the house is the 
having them all in one place, in precise and 
painful order, like soldiers on dress-parade. 
Some people treat their books like State pris- 
oners, taking them out to air once in a while, 
but usually keeping them close in their cells, 
and under lock and key; others make of 
them distinguished visitors, and keep them at 
a respectful distance, holding, perhaps, in the 
library a reception now and then. Others, still, 
take them to their heart of hearts ; and they 
become dear, familiar friends, companions of 
dark and sunny hours, and loyal confidents of 
many a sweet thought. 

Let your bookcases be filled with volumes, 
and on stately shelves arrange the books that 
are worth their weight in gold. But here, 
there, and everywhere, — in sitting-room and 
parlor and chamber, — let the treasures of the 



4 



BOOKS m THE HOUSE. 175 

language be scattered ; here the essayist, there 
the poet, and near at hand the devotional book, 
that shall lead with gentle persuasion to that 
blessed volume which is best of all, — the 
Word of God. So shall your house be refined 
and spiritualized, your children trained in a 
purer atmosphere, and yourself, by a hundred 
invisible hands, helped onward and upward. 




LVI. 

TREASURES OF MEMORY. 

'HE past, the mournful past, has many a 
treasure, 
O brother ! which thy heart has cherished 
well: 

Love, riches, native land, and swift- winged pleas- 
ure. 
Still cast around thy heart a magic spell. 

All lost or faded, and thine arms are empty, 
That fondly folded in their clinging clasp 
The joys that blessed, or came, alas ! to tempt thee, 
Yet withered, one by one, within thy grasp. 

Yet better far that memory's hand shall gather 
The faint, dried flowerets from the grave of years ; 
These shall not wound thee ; nay, their touch the 

rather 
Shall take the bitterness from out thy tears ! 
176 



TREASURES OF MEMORY. 177 

Oh, better to have seen an idol broken,* 
And bathed with scalding drops the silent clay, 
Tftan to pass on, without one fragrant token, 
A hermit, in some solitary way ! 

Better have poured the wealth of thine affections 
Orf something all unworthy of the trust. 
Than at the end to have thy recollections 
All tarnished o'er with self's corroding rust. 

For giving ever glorifies the giver ; 

And he who scatters blessings on his way 

Shall find, when he hath reached the cold, lone 

river, 
No thrill of love was ever thrown away. 

Then let the tendrils of thy heart be twining 
Wherever hope or faith an object make; 
This to each cloud shall be the silver lining. 
This from life's gloom the darkest shading take. 
12 



LVII. 

TRUST IN THE LORD. 

RUST thou the Lord in sorrow, 
When clouds are on thy way, 
(®. When trembhngs for to-morrow 
® Fill up the brief to-day ; 

When darkly brooding o'er thee 

A storm of terror seems, 
And all the joy before thee . 
Is the misty joy of dreams. 

Trust thou the Lord when riches 

Have sped away on wings, 
And all earth's gilded beauties 

Have proved but fading things; 
When all the path life offers 

Is narrow, sharp, and steep. 
And the mantling cup it proffers 

Is brimmed with poison deep. 
178 




immmi 



Mmmmmmm. 




THUST IX THE LOUD. 



A 



TRUST IN THE LORD. 179 

Trust thou the Lord in pleasure. 

When friends are clustering near, 
When home hath many a treasure. 

And bliss undimmed by fear; 
Oh! when thy sky is lightest. 

And not a tie is riven, 
Look ujDward to the brightest. 

And put thy trust in heaven. 

Trust thou the Lord in sickness, 

In languor and in pain, — 
The balmy breath of healing 

May raise thee up again; 
So, when thy hours are numbered, 

And hope hath left thy breast. 
His love, that ne'er hath slumbered, 

Will give thee sweetest rest. 

Trust thou the Lord at morning, 

Life's morning bright and fair. 
When many a field is waiting 

To try thy toil and care ; 
Trust him through manhood's battle, 

Though sun and storm betide. 
And round thee he will scatter 

Sweet light at eventide. 



LVIII. 

THE B A B V, 

'HE baby is monarch of the household. 
" Hush ! you will wake the baby ! " cries 
the mother to the children as they trip 
lightly in from school ; and doors are 
shut softly, heavy shoes exchanged for slippers, 
and fingers laid on lips, that the little darling 
may not be disturbed in his slumbers. 

The sisters steal softly to his side to watch the . 
little fellow as he lies there, floating, no doubt, 
away to the land of dreams. For who doubts that 
babies dream ? The long, fringing lashes sweep 
the rosy cheek, the lips are parted just a little, 
the dimpled chin is as white and soft as a flow- 
er, the waxen hands are crumpled up into two 
balls, and the few stray hairs on the pretty 
round head are as soft as silk, and, by dint of 
being often brushed " the wrong way," are al- 

180 



THE BABY. 181 

ready developing a tendency to curl. The 
brother, fresh from rough, boyish sports out- 
doors, becomes singularly gentle when he drops 
his book or his tools to help mother by holding 
the* baby. In fact, from father down to the 
least of the children, — the one who was baby 
herself for two years before this one came, — all 
the family learn, every day, lessons of love and 
self-denial and generosity from the mite -in the 
cradle. 

Such a wee, helpless thing ! So many months 
before he will become what people generally 
term "interesting" ! So many months before 
he will know the use of the little feet that are 
so pretty and fat and so good for nothing, ex- 
cept for mother to fondle and kiss, as she wraps 
them up in the dainty socks ! So long before 
the little tongue shall utter articulate sounds, 
shall learn the accents of love, or the fiercer 
sounds of anger ; so long before the baby-pe- 
riod of unconsciousness, the dawn of life, shall 
have passed, and he become a merry boy, learn- 
ing rough lessons in the discipline of life, going 
to school, playing hide and seek, climbing trees, 



182 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

and growing, by a hundred experiences and in- 
fluences, to the life-work of a man, and an 
American citizen ! 

Mother, do you realize it ? Does it not al- 
most take your breath away when you reflect 
that the dear little bundle you hold in your 
arms has been born in what the poet calls 
''grand and awful times" ?- He is heir of all 
the ages ; hundreds of years have been gather- 
ing and garnering their store for him. He 
shall, if he lives, take his part in the world as 
a voter, a lawgiver, a statesman, a general, — 
better than all, as a Christian man, if you ded- 
icate him now, in his babyhood, to the Sav- 
iour's service, if you train him with prayer and 
faith, if you evermore set heaven before his 
eyes as first and best. Do not let him slip 
away from you ; keep up with him as he ad- 
vances ; let him grow up to his mother's stand- 

♦- 

ard. Do not be satisfied with robing him in 
soft flannels and dainty embroideries ; take 
care of him yourself. No untried hand, no 
hand, however skilled, can care for baby as 
the mother can. 



THE BABY. 183 

Not long since, I entered a negro cabin. 
There were children of all ages in the one little 
room. There was a grandmother seated at the 
spinning-wheel, in blue homespun, with a ker- 
chief on her head, her busy hands fabricating a 
piece of cloth for the family, that should sur- 
pass in durability " store cloth," or calico, and, 
prettiest sight of all, there was a matronly 
woman, large, strong, bright-eyed, and happy- 
faced, the mother of the brood, with a great, 
fat, crowing baby in her arms. 

" How many children have you, auntie ? " 

" Onl}^ eight, madam." 

" And you never grow weary of them ? 
Never have too many ? " 

" No, ma'am ; they always brings the love 
with them when they comes ! " 

That's the secret. The Scotch have a beau- 
tiful way of saying, wlien a child is born, 
" Another bairn has come hame." Come 
home ! Cold must be the heart in which 
fashion or worldliness has supplanted that holy 
mother-love, that first glowed in Eve's bosom 
when she held her son to her breast, — that 



184 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

reigned in such sweet and awful mystery in 
Mary, the mother of our Saviour, — that glorifies 
the lowliest peasant woman who puts on the 
dignity of the mother, alike with the loftiest 
queen, whose robes of state are not half so 
beautiful as the robe of invisible love that 
floats ever about her to whom God has given to 
be called by infant lips " Mother." 



LIX. 

OUR GREATEST NEED. 

KAITH/' says the word of God, "is the sub- 
stance of things hoped for, the evidence 
c^ of things not seen." Perfect definition ! 
^ Volumes might be written on the subject, 
pages might be covered with explanations, and 
yet the subject remain far from being perfectly 
illustmted. Faith ! The radiant witness that 
we belong to an unseen Saviour. The golden 
cord which binds every believer to the glorious 
One who intercedes for us at the right hand of 
God. The lamp which lights us through the 
shadows of earth, through tangled pathways and 
marshy pools, through the thickening mists 
of the last dark valley, until we stand among the 
mighty hosts, white-robed and star-crowned, in 
the Father's house. 

" Increase our faith," prayed the disciples. 

185 



186 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

And where is the disciple who needs not every 
day to put up that petition to . the Master ? 
Riches take wings and fly away. Death enters 
the home. Sorrows come. The day that be- 
gins in sunlit splendor fades into gray pallor at 
nightfall. " Lord, increase our faith ! " 

Perhaps it is just the other way. Our bark 
is floating over silver seas to the music of 
breeze and billow, while the fragrance of flow- 
ers uncounted perfuniss the air. Then is the 
hour of danger. We take no thought of the 
morrow, and h^ed not the speck of a cloud in 
the distant horizon, though it may mean a 
storm, nor fear that the lullaby of this hour 
may change into the roar of the tossing break- 
ers. 

Christian, at ease in Zion, pray for faith* 
in the hour of prosperity ! 

Often told, but always beautiful, is the story 
of the islander who first left his home in the 
bleak North for the sunnier shores of the South. 
As he gazed for the first time on the green 
meadows and the waving grain, his face showed 



OUR GREATEST NEED. 187 

astonishment and pleasure. Some of his fel- 
low-travelers enjoyed his amazement. 

" Saw you ever so fair a land ? " they 
asked. 

" Nay ! " said the islander, " there was 
naught like this in St. Kilda.'' 

"- Heard you ever of God in St. Kilda ? " 
they asked. 

" Of God ! In my own St. Kilda no one can 
forget God, for we hang continually upon his 
arm ! " 

There was truth in the words of the simple- 
hearted islander. When a storm comes at sea, 
and the vessel rocks to and fro, and even brave 
old sailqr-faces blanch, then, as by instinct, 
the most reckless call upon God. Then the 
most heedless plead the prayer, '' Is thine arm 
shortened, that it can not save ? " As the lit- 
tle one runs to its mother at nightfall, so when 
darkness gathers we mortals cry to God. 

In these days of progress we need much 
faith. We need to pray to and to depend 
upon God, who alone can guide the nation 
into smooth seas again. • 



188 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

" Thou too sail on, ship of state ! 
Sail on, O Union strong and great ! 
Humanity, with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate. 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 
Are all with thee." 

Let us all remember that God reigns, and 
let us pray, believing, that thereby we may re- 
ceive a blessing. 



LX. 

THE MOTHER' S LAMENT. 

fHAD a tiny floweret, a fair and fragile thing, 
That ht up all my summer bower with its 
W fair blossoming ; 

^ It scattered fragrance on the air at morning's 
pleasant prime. 
And held its sparkling chalice up at evening's 

dewy time. 
Its bright blue eye seemed ever fixed upon the 

blue above; 
And the angels bent them down to watch the 
beauteous bud in love. 

I had a bonnie little bird, with plumage silver 

bright ; 
It sang its sweetest song for me at morning's hour 

of light. 
It slumbered, at the fall of day, in soft and dainty 

nest, 

189 



190 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

And with a flushing cheek I watched its calm, un- 
troubled rest ; 

Its songs grew sweeter, day by day; a clearer, 
purer tone 

Came thrilling from its tiny throat, and echoed to 
my own. 

I know that oft those silver tones went ringing to 
the sky. 

And the angels bent to listen from out their home 
on high. 

I had a rich and costly gem ; it shone with rain- 
bow light ; 

Its opal tints made beautiful this vale of cloudy 
night; 

So radiant the glory was that to my gem was 
given. 

It seemed unto my ardent soul a passing gleam 
of heaven. 

I thought it like the stars above, but fairer far to 
me; 

I thought it like the stars that shine upon the crys- 
tal sea : 

I know the angels watched it, my gem so rich and 
rare. 

So like the coronals of light, that on their crowns 
they wear. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT, 191 

I dearly loved my springtide flower, my bird that 
sang so well, 

My many-tinted gem of light, with love that none 
can tell. 

My Father saw my restless heart, its wild idolatry, 

And in his love divine he broke the chains which 
fastened me ; 

He bade the angels take it hence, my fi^agrant, 
fairy flower. 

And take away the bird that charmed each fleet- 
winged summer hour ; 

Then paled my precious jewel too, but I know it 
shineth free, 

In Jesus' diadem of light, to all eternity. 



LXI. 

ANGELS UNAWARES, 

^H, yesternight there sought thy door a stran- 
ger old and gray, 
A man by many burdens bent, and weary of 
the way ! 
If thou, my friend, for Christ's dear sake, didst 

gently heed his prayer. 
Perchance thy roof did shelter then an angel un- 
aware. 

There came unbidden to thy soul a sweet and 

lovely thought, 
A thought so pure, a thought so sweet, its hues 

with heaven were fraught ; 
On airy wing it lifted thee far from earth's sordid 

cares ; 
It gave thee strength; it brought thee rest, that 

angel unawares. 

192 



ANGELS UNAWARES. 193 

A silver song went floating by, a song of love and 

light, 
It flung its thrilling sweetness forth to greet the 

starry night ; 
Thy spirit bore in solitude a grief that none might 

share, — 
To thee the song brought wondrous peace, — an 

angel unaware ! 

O little golden heads, this night on dainty pillows 

pressed ! 
O downy heads that nestle close to their dear 

mother's breast ! 
O little feet that patter swift all up and down the 

stairs ! — 
God grant that o'er you ever watch his angels un- 
^ awares. 

Come when ye list, come trooping thick through 
sunshine and through snow, 

Te ministers of Him, our God, whose mercies over- 
flow! 

Come gently to our hearts and homes, and be our 
sweetest cares • 

The welcome to those flitting guests, the angels 
unawares ! 
13 




LXII. 

BLOSSOMS. 

^HAT sight more beautiful than a tree 
smiling under a profusion of blossoms ? 
Each perfect little flower is a gem of 
creative power ! How exquisite and 
complex, how graceful and well-proportioned 
the arrangement of stamen and calyx, the 
tinting and shade of the tiny cup, and the 
shading of the delicate petals ! Breezes of 
Eden play among the branches, or toss the 
foam-like flowers about, till they lie on the 
ground in masses of fragrant snow. 

The sweetest thing about a blossom is its 
promise of the future. Every blossom is a 
pledge redeemable after a stated time in lus- 
cious and beautiful fruit. Looking at the car- 
nival of spring, we see already the trees bow- 
ing beneath their autumn load, and hear the 

194 



BLOSSOMS. 195 

glad shouts of the " harvest-home." But 
many a blossom never comes to anything. An 
untimely frost nips it, a fierce wind blights 
it, or some rude hand breaks it from the 
branch. 

Children are human blossoms. In the sweet- 
ness of their youthful innocence, in the glad- 
ness of their opening life and hope, they are 
blossoms, lovely in themselves, lovelier in their 
promise. But many a raindrop and many a 
sunbeam must fall on them, ere yet the bud 
shall ripen to the fruit. They must have fair 
weather and judicious training, and God must 
be constantly implored on their behalf, or the 
blossoms will be blighted sadly. 

Whoever has a little blossom in his house, in 
the shape of a darling child, has won already a 
" piece of the heaven that men strive for." 
Whoever has a little child in his care, whoever 
meets such a one, lost, perhaps, in the crowded 
street, weeping, perhaps, in some shelter that is 
not a home, slipping into a mission school, or 
tripping along lightly without care for the mor- 
row, should remember Christ's words, - — ''Of 



196 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

such is the kingdom of heaven." Let us not 
shrink from the responsibility that lies on us 
as citizens, as parents, as Christians, to take 
care of the little blossoms that shall develop 
in due time into the men and women of the 
republic. 




LXIII. 

THE VEIL UPON THE WATERS. 

;^ROSSING the East River one morning, 
some years ago, a thick fog darkened the 
atmosphere. The boat plied her swift 
way over the waters, but the other side 
was shrouded in the misty veil, and the city 
spires were seen dimly, as through a glass. 

Beneath, the blue waves shone in serene 
beauty. Far up, the white clouds piled them- 
selves against the deep azure of the sky, and 
the sun shone, — somewhere. But all the 
space between was filled with a mist, thick, 
gray, and impenetrable, — ethereal as the tissue 
around the bride on her day of days, hopeless 
as that which the sad nun binds on her head 
when she weds herself to the weariness of the 
cloister. Through the gloom there came con- 
stantly the ringing of bells and the shrill whist-: 

197 



198 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

ling of the engine, as the boats with their pre- 
cious freights groped to and fro. 

Christian, is not this like thy life ? Out in 
thy little boat, upon Time's changeful stream, 
how often the gray mists fold their arms around 
thee, and hide from thy view the shore to which 
thou art speeding with every dip of the oar. 
Far above shines the Sun of Righteousness, with 
healing in his wings ; but earthborn trials, dim 
the eye of faith, and darkness gathers. But 
by and by thou wilt reach the end, and there 
no mist shall dim the sweet waters of the river 
of life. 



LXIV. 

M V TRE A S UR E S, 

COVET not pearls from the deep dark sea. 
Though gleaming and bright 'neath the waves 

they be ; 
I ask not the diamond, pure and bright. 
On my brow to scatter its fitftil light; 

I seek not gold from the lonely mine, 

Nor aught that can only coldly shine; 

For the heart hath jewels richer far 

Than the perishing gems of this frail earth are. 

I seek not flowers fi^om the wildwood fair, 
Fresh with the fi-agrance Of summer air; 
The rose may bloom in its queenly pride. 
The lily may dream by the water's side; 
For others the proud exotics twine. 
So the hearth-flowers of peace and content be 
mine. 

199 



200 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

I would not have robes of the purple dye, 
That the rich might smile and the poor might sigh ; 
I long not for pictures rare and old, 
That glow when the master-hand is cold; 
For the eye of love my form can bless, 
Though it wear a simple, uncostly dress; 
And the fairest portraits I care to see 
Are hung in the halls of memory. 

The treasures my spirit delights to own 
Are the loving look and the kindly tone, 
The eye to meet mine, with trust sincere, 
The lip to smile, and the tone to cheer, 
The fervent grasp of a friendly hand. 
The mirth of a happy household band, — 
All that gladdens life by night or day. 
And helps the soul on its heavenward way. 



LXV. 

B R O K E N CH A I NS, 

nO more slaves in America! What a 
^It thrilling thought ! How it brightens and 
flames into new beauty every time that 
we repeat the words to ourselves or our 
neighbors ! No more husbands torn from wives, 
no more children rent from mothers' arms, no 
more men and women sold like brutes in the 
market-place ! No more the auction-block, the 
lash, the chain ! In God's time, and in the way 
that seemed to him best, he has removed the 
blot from our flag, the one cloud from our na- 
tional sky. Throvigh the length and breath of 
the sunny South, — poor tempest-tost land that 
she has been, — free labor is no more an experi- 
ment. It has been proved, and even the for- 
mer masters would be loth, in the light of to- 
day, to return to the old order of things. 

201 



202 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

The slaves are freedmen. They work for and 
support their families. They hire their cabin 
in the country, or their tenement in the town, 
and pay their monthly rent. They have pews 
in their own churches, and belong to regularly 
organized benevolent societies. They go to 
school, and old men and women, with toil-bent 
frames and toil-hardened hands, sit patiently 
beside the little children, learning to spell. 
They thirst for education. The free man's 
highest privilege, the vote, is for them and their 
children. At night, when the day's labors are 
over, they visit each other, trammeled by no 
pass, and in fear of no patrol. Their chains 
are broken. Deep are the thanksgivings which 
those simple hearts send forth to their Father 
in heaven. Fond is the loving memory in 
which they hold him who was the Father's in- 
strument in their emancipation. 

But, ' — no more slaves in America ? The 
thought rises, and will not away, — are there 
not many even yet ? Are there not those who 
love their chains and hug them closely, even 
while they are eating out their lives ? Are there 



BROKEN CHAINS. 203 

not some who are proud of their slavery, and 
parade it as if it were a badge of honor ? 

There are the slaves of appetite. Usually 
they are the lowest of all, for those habits which 
take fast hold of the animal nature, binding 
the spiritual down, are ever cruel and tyranni- 
cal. It may be the love of alcoholic drinks, in- 
sidious and fatal, creeping on by slow degrees, 
till the man loses all self-control, and sinks far 
beneath the brutes that perish. At first, con- 
science excuses the indulgence, under the pre- 
tense of a needed stimulant ; then, accustomed 
to the sin, she ceases to perform her office, or 
does it so feebly that her voice is not heard. 
Health, reputation, friendship, home, happiness, 
household love, are lost, one by one, and the 
victim, blind and dumb, only drinks the deeper. 
Poor slave ! Canst thou not break thy chains ? 
Listen to the voice of Holy Writ. " Wine is a 
mocker, strong drink is raging; whosoever is 
deceived thereby is not wise." 

Opium counts its thousands of slaves. And 
its sway is even more relentless, even more 
dangerous, than that of Alcohol. Once wrapped 



204 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

in the spell that the fatal drug imparts, the vic- 
tim revels in a paradise of dreams, only to be- 
come callous and selfish, and utterly dead to all 
the living, breathing world around liim. Years 
go by, and there comes at last the final scene, 
— a death whose horrors the mind dreads to 
contemplate : nerves and tissues destroyed, life 
at its citadel undermined and broken, and to 
the ruined soul nothing remaining but a fearful 
looking-for of judgment and fiery indignation. 

Tobacco, in its various forms, holds captive 
far too many in our land. Young men, with 
salaries which are barely sufficient to provide 
the necessaries of life, spend on cigars sums 
which, compared with their incomes, are fabu- 
lous. In the Carolinas, even women have an 
odious habit, called '' dipping," chewing snuff, 
and from morning to night these white women, 
lower than the blacks, sit with their boxes and 
wooden brushes, paying tribute to the vilest 
of appetites. 

Vanity and love of dress, — what tyrants 
are they ! How many a bright-eyed girl is mis- 
erable because she can not adorn herself so 



BROKEN CHAINS. 205 

gayly as some richer companion ! How many 
a virtuous daughter of Columbia is unhappy 
because she can not array herself like the 
courtesans of the French capital. What hours 
that might be given to the elevation of the low- 
ly, to the culture of the mind, to the worship of 
God, are thrown away in a vain effort to keep 
up with every changing fashion, and Avith the 
follies of our neighbors ! 

The vice of gambling, in all its forms, is a 
hard master. Leaving out its pale, wan-eyed, 
heart-aching servants, who haunt through the 
darkness of the night those dens of Satan 
known as " gambling-hells," what shall we 
think of the numerous gift-enterprises, lotteries, 
and chances of all kinds, which seem to have 
taken such a hold upon the public ? 

We can not build a national hospital, nor 
found a home for soldiers and sailors, without 
by wide advertising calling the people's atten- 
tion to the fact that fifty or one hundred thou- 
sand dollars are to be given away. Some for- 
tunate one, among the many who subscribe, 
shall, for his dollar, receive a farm or a house, 



206 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

a piano, or a set of jewelry. Our clmrches 
at their fairs have lotteries at every table, 
and dewy lips and sparkling eyes and sunny 
faces beg and pray you to take ''just one 
chance " in this or that thing. Do the ladies 
ever think how this fosters the gaming spirit, 
— the spirit that has lured its thousands of 
our brightest and best youth to crime and prison 
and suicide ? 

The love of novel-reading has its slaves too. 
Far be it from me to condemn every volume 
that bears the title, Novel. The novel has its 
own legitimate place in our literature, both in- 
tellectual and religious. Some of the noblest 
works in our language, some which have done 
the best work for Christ and for huinanity, are 
written in this form. But still, the most un- 
exceptionable novels should be sparingly read. 
One can not live always upon pastry and pre- 
serves. History, poetry, travels, memoirs, — 
let these take precedence of fiction. When 
once a young person has become a confirmed 
novel-reader, all other books become distasteful. 
Life itself grows vague and unreal, and the pup- 



BROKEN CHAINS. 207 

pets of the author's fancy become the standard 
by which the novice judges men and women. 
It is hard to descend from Lady Clorinda's 
boudoir, or Lord Frederick's picture-gallery, 
to the homely household task, the setting of a 
table, or the darning of a stocking. 

There is a kind of literature which is sweep- 
ing on us like a flood, against which our homes 
can not be too vigilantly guarded. The mis^ 
takes and false doctrines of what is called '' lib- 
eral religion," which is not the religion of the 
Bible, are here taught so warily, so artfully, 
under so much gloss and glitter, that the chains 
are slipped over, and clasped tightly, before the 
victim is aware. Li some of these publications, 
immoralitj^ wears a veil, and stalks on before 
the reader as did the fiend who appeared unto 
Christian and Hopeful in the garb of an an- 
gel of light. Principle is undermined, evil 
thoughts introduced, and the soul is blackened 
and scarred, while the poison is imbibed un- 
thinkingly. 

There is one way, and only one, to break these 
chains that bind us so firmly. On your knees. 



208 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

poor bondman, on your knees, before the 
mercy-seat, plead your evil case ; there im- 
plore God for Christ's sake to set you free ! 
Vow in God's strength to forsake the courses 
that imperil your soul, and you shall finally es- 
cape. 

But not without a struggle. There is a val- 
ley of humiliation which must be trodden ; 
very likely you will have also to pass through 
a valley of the shadow of death, which is 
" dark as pitch ; a wilderness, a land of deserts 
and pits, a land of drought ; " a place where 
you shall have veritable conflicts with the evil 
one. He never lets his slaves go without a 
hard fight for the mastery. But, trusting in 
Jesus, and being armed with the weapons of 
faith, you shall finally prevail. 



Lxyi. 

A LESSON FROM THE BEES. 

fT is said that bees are not productive in 
tropical regions, because the climate is so 
W equable that flowers are blooming all the 
year round, and the bee loses the mstinct 
of hoarding for a winter that never comes. 

So, dear reader, if our lives were all sunshine 
and flowers, we should cease to gather honey. 
How often in the day of happiness we forget 
God ! How often prayer seems a formal duty, 
rather than a blessed privilege ! How the heart 
sends forth its tendrils till they cling, like ivy 
on a ruin, to the perishing things of earth ! 
Heaven seems so far, and earth so bright, that 
we do not long for the pearly gates. It is hard 
to keep close enough to Jesus in the day of 
prosperity. Our hearts are too prone to rely 
on themselves when everything goes smoothly ; 

209 



210 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

and, like the monarch of old, as we look on the 
towers of our happiness, we say, — ''Is not this 
great Babylon which I have built ? " 

But let a damp east wind of sorrow scatter 
our sunshine, — then our souls fail us. Let 
death darken the door, or poverty peer in at the 
window, — down fall our palaces, off flies our 
mirth, our beautiful garments are exchanged 
for sackcloth ; and tlien we turn to God. No 
arm but his is strong enough for the day of 
trouble. No heart but his is warm enough to 
console for the sorrows of life. No home like 
the Father's house, when the world bars her 
doors against us. 

Winter has come, and we want a shelter. 
Sweet then the honey of the promises, gathered 
from God's great field in other days. Sweet is 
the faith taking hold within the veil, sweet the 
shadow of the cross, and sweet the hope 'of 
heaven. 

Let us make honey now, from precious les- 
sons of providence, from holy Sabbaths, from 
prayer-meetings, from sick-beds, from friends 
whom we love, from God's own book. 



^05 



If 



LXVII. 

MY CLASS FOR JESUS. 

Y precious class for Jesus, 
Who did so much for me! 
Who paid the price that justice claimed, 
111 hours of agony. 
'Tis little, O my Sa^^our! 

That my weak hand can give; 
Oh, let me win these thoughtless ones 
To look to thee and live! 



My whole dear class for Jesus! 

Now in their youthful bloom. 
Ere shadows lie across their path, 

Dull sickness and the tomb; 
While life is in its morning, 

And bright hopes cluster nigh. 
May these immortal souls lay up 

Their treasure in the sky! 

211 



212 HOME AND HEAVEN, 

My whole clear class for Jesus ! 

Oil, let not one be lost, 
When Calvary was the fearful sum 

Their wondrous ransom cost! 
One little step may sever 

The parting veil away, 
And forms that now are glad and fair 

To-morrow may be clay. 

- For Jesus! oh, for Jesus! 

The time is fleeting fast, 
The holy Sabbaths hasten by. 

Soon, soon will come the last! 
Oh, let me toil for Jesus, 

As ne'er I've toiled before, 
That I may bear a precious sheaf 

To yonder shining shore! 



LXVIII. 

THE OTHER S I D E. ^ 

^jEVER forget to look for the other side. 
Many things that seem dark and forbid- 
^0) ding would be perfectly clear and beauti- 
ful if the causes that lurk behind them 
could be revealed. The sea-shell is sometimes 
rough and uncouth, but its inner side is pearl, 
wondrously veined and polished. The sweet ker- 
nel of the nut is buried in the tough and fibrous 
shell. The rose blooms and scatters its fra- 
grance, though all around it the thorns extend 
their sharp fingers. The darkest cloud has a 
lining of silver light. The wildest mountain 
nurses in its bosom the flowery glen and the 
sparkling stream. 

When friends appear cold and estranged, 
when icy words fall from the lip, and eyes are 
turned away, look for the other side. Hearts 

213 



214 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

are not always what they seem. The soul may 
be chafing behind the unnatural mask. Judge 
never harshly, but wait. 

To all our trials there is another side. The 
wail of sorrow breaks forth over some idol that 
lies crushed and broken upon the shrine of 
love ; but the time may not be distant when 
the affliction shall become a glory, and we shall 
recognize the angel hand that led us along, 
while we held back and wept like reluctant 
children. This side is earth ; here are sud- 
den storms, here are winds that rave like dis- 
tracted spirits, here is heavy brooding gloom. 
Yonder side is heaven, whose glory " eye hath 
not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive." 



LXIX. 

THE OLD MAN'S DEATH, 

^^N aged man lay upon his deathbed. He 
. -^^ had spent many weary days and nights 
^^ in his pilgrimage, but he had come to the 
end at last, and now he waited calmly on 
the bank until the angels should carry him 
over to the sunny shores of rest. Voices of 
friends fell faintly on his ear, like the distant 
moan of the wind in the pine-tops, or the pleas- 
ant hum of the summer night. Memory was 
leading the departing spirit, for the last time in 
this life, through the chambers of her imagery. 
Once more the feeble patriarch, with the locks 
of silver on his brow, was a merry child, sport- 
ing before his father's door. Again he beheld 
the wife of his youth, long years ago snatched 
from his side. 

No sad thoughts for the dying hour ! The 
sorrows of disappointment, the heart-sickness 

215 



216 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

of bereavement, the days and nights of hope 
deferred, the years of toil, were about to be 
sjj^allowed up in glory. He could almost hear 
the rustle of the angels' wings, the music of 
their golden harps. Soon he would be gathered 
home to the church above. 

A smile passed over the withered face. 
Faint and fainter still grew the feeble breath. 
The light faded from the dim eyes, and whiter 
grew the pallid brow. Low words struggled 
from his lips ; then came a feeble sigh, and 
those who stood by said softly, '' All is over ! " 

What was it that he said ? Simply this : he 
fancied himself again in the bare little room 
where his life-work had been wrought, and he 
gently murmured, '' It is growing dark. The 
school may be dismissed." 

And thou, aged saint, wert then indeed dis- 
missed from the school of this probationary 
life, from the school of experience, graduating 
with high honor, and taken up to the Father's 
house. The darkness of earth was to be lost 
in the light of heaven. " The school might be 
dismissed." 



LXX. 

WHERE IS YOUR INFLUENCE? 

^ CIENCE informs us that there is nothing 
^p]^ lost. The little atoms that float away 
and are seen no more, the dewdrops that 
the morning sun kisses away, the thou- 
sand dying things about us, plant and flower . 
and tree, all flourish, fade, and return again in 
some other form. We may not recognize the 
little dewdrop that glistened in the rose-cup 
yesterday, when it comes back to us borne on 
the* wings of some grateful shower, yet it is not 
less the same dewdrop. We may not see the 
faint, far-off ripple that stirs upon the outer 
shore of the lake wherein with thoughtless 
hand we tossed a pebble, but it is not the less 
true that each troubled wavelet stirs another, 
till every drop in the lake has moved in re- 
sponse. 

217 



218 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

So it is with the words you utter, tlie flitting 
smile or frown on your face, the thoughtless 
deeds you do. You may not see the effect of 
your action, but it is not without its influence. 
You may never know how far the force of your 
random shot extended, but some heart or home 
felt it, perhaps. 

We ought to take care of our idle words. 
Hastily spoken, quickly forgotten, they may 
have buried themselves in some soul so deeply 
that the scar will never wear away. It is a ter- 
j-ible thought that the idle words of a Cliristian 
may have shut the pearly gates upon some poor 
soul that shall wander in the blackness of dark- 
ness for ever. 

Where is your influence ? 



LXXL 

THE LOCK OF HAIR. 

LONG wavy lock of brown hair ! A 

tress to fold away in soft tissue paper, and 

^a look upon now and then, dropping tears, 

the while, for the absent one whose head 

is covered by masses of just such rippling brown 

hair. Where do you think it was ? I will tell 

you. 

Standing in tlie area of a rebel intrenchment 
in front of Petersburg, with the hot June 
sun steeping everything in its fervid rays, down 
on the yellow soil, hard with the tramp of feet, 
furrowed by the spade, and hollowed here and 
there into hastily-made graves, we saw some- 
thing browner than the soil, something that 
curled and rippled yet, though rain had drenched 
it, and sun had bleached it ; stooping we touched 
it. Horror! a shiver ran through the whole 

219 



220 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

frame from the hand that touched the dead 
thing, for this lock of hair adhered to some- 
thing underneath. Just below our feet lay a 
dead soldier ; already the rain had washed away 
a part of his shallow grave, and left this ghastly 
memorial protruding. Poor deceived boy ! We 
pity thee ; and the more that thy fall was on 
behalf of " the bad cause that God has set his 
curse upon." 

A little way off was a Union fortification, where 
the graves told of terrible carnage, — ridge af- 
ter ridge of mounds, without a sod or a flower 
to hide the naked earth, and not a board or 
stick to mark the name, or tell who fell there. 
Yet God knows ! The dust that lies in these 
nameless graves shall sleep till the resurrection, 
and never till then may earthly friends know 
where or how their loved ones were reft away. 
Beside the soldier's grave we can but hope that 
the inmate was a soldier of the Captain of our 
salvation, and that he has entered upon his 
rest. 



LXXII. 

EVENING SONG FOR TEACHERS' MEETING. 

^HE busy day hath j^assed away, 
Its toils and tumults done, 
And now we meet to praise and pray, 
In heart and purpose one. 

One banner streams above us all, 

With love in every fold; 
God on our side, as brothers tried 

We're 'neath that flag enrolled. 

Let others toil for earthly fame. 

In deeds of high emprise ; 
We're glad if but an infant's name 

Is written in the skies. 

Let others reap the bowing grain 
'Neath glowing noontide suns: 

Dear Lamb of God, from sin and pain 
We'd snatch thy little ones. 
14 221 



222 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

May peace in all our borders dwell, 
And dews of grace descend, 

And He who doeth all things well 
Be evermore our friend! 




LXXIII. 

DAYLIGHT IS GOING. 

^0 said a dear little boy, the other day, a 

few moments before he died. The room 

^ was light, but his eyes were darkened. A 

moment more of gloom, and the freed 

spirit had wakened to the glory of heaven, in 

the presence of the Saviour, — earth's night for 

ever fled ; heaven's day begun ! 

Sweet words of a dying child ! Let them of- 
ten recur to our memory ! Daylight is going. 
But it is not quite gone. Work while it lasts. 
"Work for souls, for Jesus. Another year has 
fled, bearing with it many who were buoyant 
and glad when its record began. A new year 
has come, bearing in its bosom great joys for 
some, great woes for others. Some are appointed 
to longer life ; others are approaching the nar- 
row house. Who is ce]?tain of life ? The child 

223 



224 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

ill the nurse's arms, the mother amid her circle, 
the aged, full of years and honors, may all have 
but a step between this life and the next. 

Daylight is going. But it is the uncertain 
day of earth, now clear, now clouded. Death is 
but a swift, cold night, a passage through a dark 
hall into the King's palace, the Father's house, 
where there are many mansions. Cease not 
then to labor for Jesus ! '^ Thou canst not toil 
in vain ! " 



LXXIV. - 

WORK AND LOVE, 

'HE secret of success in any undertaking 
is folded up, like the fragrance in a flow- 
er, in the heart that prompts to it. That 
work which is commenced with enthusi- 
asm, prosecuted with energy, and finished by 
persevering labor, is almost certain to win for 
its author the reward which he covets. They 
who would live to some purpose must live in 
earnest, fearing no danger, dismayed by no self- 
denial. 

For us there is no Aladdin's lamp to flash 
our wishes into realities ; no Fortunatus's purse 
to buy for the yearning heart its wildest dreams. 
Still, lost among common pebbles, the philoso- 
pher's stone, that shall change the gray dust 
into the yellow gold, lies undiscovered by the 

225 



226 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

shore of an unknown sea. Effort is the only 
talisman that can win reward. 

We are all too prone to depreciate our oppor- 
tunities. Had we but the wealth which a kind 
Providence has lavished on our neighbor, we 
would be joyful almoners of the bounty of God. 
Had we the rich gifts of genius, the wisdom of 
the scholar, the tongue of the orator, we would 
tell the sweet story of the cross in tones to melt 
the hardest hearts. And since our Father has 
given to us but one talent, while our fellow-ser- 
vant has ten, we are fain to fold it in a napkin 
or hide it in the dust. 

Yet the commandment is, " Whatsoever thy 
hand findeth to do, do it watli thy might!" 
It is binding on us all, as well on the lowliest 
child of want and sorrow as on the happy one 
whose lot lies in a pleasant land, — as well on 
the youth whose bounding steps tread the morn- 
ing street of life as on him whose bronzed fore- 
head shows the marks of noon-day toil, or on 
him who totters wearily down Time's descend- 
ing slope. What a world of good might be done 
if every Christian heart took home the lesson ; 



WOliK AND LOVE. 227 

if every laborer cultivated his little patch of 
ground with all the strength and skill he could 
bring to the task. So did John Bunyan, the 
prince of dreamers, as in the gloom of Bedford 
jail he traced the pilgrim's progress from the 
city of destruction to the city of life. So Har- 
lan Page, whether in the noisy workshop, the 
busy street, or the quiet prayer-meeting, did 
what he could to gather gems which should 
shine in glory. So Mary Lyon, with no riches 
but the wealth of an earnest heart, and the 
strength that comes by prayer, performed a 
noble work for her sex and for God. 

Work and love should be the motto of the 
Sunday-school laborer. How brightly then 
would his lamp burn, when the winds were wild 
and the way long ! How the feet would linger 
in the homes of want and sorrow, and the eyes 
dim with tears of sympathy at the bedside of 
pain and distress ! How tenderness and charity 
would brim over and sweep beyond our imme- 
diate circle, and reach even the uttermost, for 
whom Christ has a corner in his heart ! 

Loving hearts make willing hands. One of 



228 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 



Napoleon's veterans said to the surgeon who 
was probing his wounded side, " A little lower, 
and you will find the Emperor ! " So should it 
be with us. Christ in our hearts, Christ-like 
will be our lives. 




LXXV. 

ONLY AN HOUR, 

|o\NLY an hour," cried a merry child. 
As she bounded off to play, — 
"I must hie to the nook by the shady 
brook 

For pebbles and flowerets gay! 
I must seek in the trunk of the hollow tree 

For moss to adorn my bower; 
How much of pleasure there may be 
In one short sunny hour!" 

" Only an hour ! " a wanderer said. 

As he sprang to his native shore, 
"Ere I Hft again, as in early days, 

The latch of my father's door ; 
Ere I feel my mother's heart-warm kiss, 

And clasp my father's hand. 
And look around, with a thrill of bliss, 

On our happy, household band." 

229 



230 HOME AND HEAVEN, 

"Only an hour! a fleeting hour!" 

Said one who was near to heaven, 
"Ere I cast aside this sin-stained garb. 

For the robes of the forgiven. 
I can hear the sounds of the river of life, 

And the dash of the crystal sea : 
Only an hour, a fleeting hour, 

And my weary soul will be free ! " 

Only an hour, at flush of morn, 

Only an hour, at eve, — 
And we cast away the gift sublime, 

And never wait to grieve. 
We fling it away and hasten on 

With a careless laugh and tone, 
Nor mourn that we've lost in life's heaving sea 

A gem that was all our own. 

Only an hour, a little hour! 

Yet many a life has fled, 
And a numerous host has joined the ranks 

Of the calm and silent dead ; 
Many a noble thought has flown 

On a mission of truth and love. 
And many a beautiful thing has come 

From our Father's home above. 



OXLY AX HOUU. 231 

Ob ! cherish them well, the angel-band, 

Who weave the drcling day, 
Stamp them with writing deep and pure. 

Speed them with love away. 
They are bearing you fast to another land, 

Where never a storm may lower. 
Where no harp-notes of joy or wail of woe 

Measure the time by an hour. 



LXXVI. 

POPLAR GROVE CHURCH. 

FEW miles from Petersburg stands Poplar 
Grove Church. It was built during the 
last year of the war by a portion of Gen- 
eral Meade's army, and that officer's head- 
quarters were close beside it. The church, 
which is large and very beautiful, is constructed 
of the boughs of trees ; and roof, walls, and 
spire have a graceful, airy appearance which 
suits well the fair landscape that stretches for 
miles around. At the same time, its founda- 
tions are broad and strong, and this sanctuary 
in the camp might hold with ease a large assem- 
bly of worshipers. 

Such an assembly it has held many a time 
during the months of the past. Standing in 
its shady porcli, beneath the whispering poplar- 
trees, one miglit there have heard the hurrying 

232 



POPLAR GROVE CHURCH. 233 

tramp of men, the shrill tones of command, the 
silvery blast of the bugle, or the deep bass of 
the drum. Perhaps the hoarse thunder of the 
cannon, the sharp rattle of the musket, or the 
fiendish whiz of the shell, might often have 
reached the ear. Sometimes, at nightfall, the 
glowing camp-fires have thrown their red light 
upon groups of blue-coated veterans who met 
around the genial blaze to tell their stories and 
sing their songs of home. And as far as the 
eye could reach, it might dwell on a white shim- 
mer of canvas, and the ever shifting, ever chang- 
ing scenes of army life. 

To-day, how changed ! A mighty congregation 
is gathered within sight of Poplar Grove Church, 
but through all its vast ranks there is neither 
sound nor motion. Rank upon rank, row upon 
row, regiment upon regiment, — all upon tlieir 
arms in the still, deep slumber of death. 
Never more shall morning wake this dreamless 
army with its rosy fires. Never more shall 
trumpet rouse them till the last trump shall 
sound, and the dead, small and great, shall 
come forth and stand in the presence of God. 



234 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Most appropriately, the government has se- 
lected this spot as a National Cemetery. From 
the vast extent of ground where our men 
marched and suffered and died their remains 
are being gathered and brought here for honora- 
ble sepulture. Buried hastily where they fell, 
by the wayside, or in the red field of strife, 
many have left no trace, and over such — and 
they are hundreds — this brief epitaph is in- 
scribed: "Unknown U. S. Soldier, from 

farm or fort," &c. To us this seemed very 
touching. Over many graves are placed the 
name and regiment of the deceased, and these 
can of course be removed, if friends desire, to 
graves among their kindred. Nearly thirty 
thousand soldiers will be laid here before the 
work is completed. 

As we rode back to Petersburg from the little 
church and the vast congregation, the light of 
the setting sun slanted down on the October 
landscape. All was quiet, but in broken fences 
and bare fields and ruins, where had once been 
stately homes, we realized that liere had been 
the harsh hand of war. Still more did we real- 



POPLAR GROVE CHURCH. 235 

ize it, when, the next morning, standing in the 
crater where the mine explosion occurred, we 
were told that from beneath onr feet nine hun- 
dred mutilated bodies had been taken. And lo ! 
as we looked among the remains of canteens, 
haversacks, and clothing, w^e beheld two ghastly 
skulls, that seemed to stare in our faces. Sadly 
we turned away, glad that we still have a coun- 
try, but lamenting that the flower of the land 
has fallen in the strife. 



LXXVII. 

THE OLD CL O CK. 

jT was the last night of the year. A few 
] more measured ticks of the clock, and the 
' last moan of December would have died on 
the wild winds of the storm. Outside, the 
snow was falling, white and soft, as if it were 
weaving a winding-sheet for the departing year, 
and the tempest was singing a requiem. In- 
side, the fire burned brightly, the cheerful gas- 
light cast a spell of beauty about the cozy 
household room, and the curtains, draping the 
windows, excluded the cold that reigned with- 
out. 

It was my duty to wind the clock. Its tick 
was somewhat fainter than usual, and it seemed 
as if the faithful monitor whose voice had 
sounded so many years in our house was about 
to be silent. I wound it up, and the voice 

236 



THE OLD CLOCK. 237 

gained new strength, ticking, ticking solemnly, 
as if it would say, '^ Prepare to meet thy God ! " 
Seventy years ago the dear old clock, then 
fresh and new from its maker's hands, had be- 
gun its labors of love. To three generations it 
had ministered ; for a reverend grandsire had 
often gazed upon its face, and a father and mo- 
ther, now aged, had treasured it among their 
earliest household effects. As children we had 
watched it many a time, when its record told 
how long we might stay in-doors, and when we 
might rush out into the glad air and sunlight. 
It had pointed to the hour of morning and 
evening prayer ; we had gone to school when 
its warning finger pointed to nine, and on the 
holy day its steady voice kept time to the sil- 
very chime of the church-bells. It had not for- 
gotten to note the hour when a new life had en- 
tered the home, nor had it paused when a loved 
one was borne away from our band. Dear old 
clock ! how smilingly it had looked on the 
bridal scene ; how cheerfully on the youthful 
merry-making and happy festive gathering of 
friends ! And now, when the hand of change 



238 HOME AND HEAVEJSr. 

m 

had been busy about our idols, sprinkling 
snow-flakes on the raven curls of one, writing 
wrinkles on the smooth brow of another, the 
old clock in the corner, venerable with age, but 
in nothing altered, still held its honored place 
in our house. 

Honored ! yes, far more than the latest Paris- 
ian novelty, in the shape of bronze or marble, 
that adorns the drawing-room. Old mahogany 
clock of my ancestors, type of the solidity, the 
uprightness, thq, real worth of the men of days 
gone by, in these days of extravagance and 
show I can not help but honor thee ! 

Thou hast taught me, during these years, the 
value of consistency. As thou markest the hours, 
not by fits and starts, but minute by minute, 
with unwearied patience through the livelong 
year, so should they who wait on the Lord be 
patient and constant in their service. Too 
many of us are earnest only while the glow of 
our first love lasts, degenerating finally into 
that lukewarm state which is a grief to our 
Saviour. Others are fervent and laborious 
spasmodically, relaxing effort whenever a world- 



THE OLD CLOCK. 239 

breeze sweeps coldly over the sky. Others fall 
asleep, and then enters the enemy to sow tares. 
Christian friends, let us watch and pray ! 
Many eyes are upon us ; Christ from his throne 
of intercession looks on his friends with eyes of 
tender love ; angels are looking on ; fellow- 
Christians behold ; hosts of unconverted ones 
gaze with anxious interest. Let us try to be 
consistent. Let us give forth no ignis fatuus 
gleam, but rather the steady light of the beacon. 
Let us '- stand fast by the maidens of Boaz," 
and glean in no strange iSelds. Let us be found 
in our own seat in the Sabbath school, in our 
own congregation on the Lord's day, in our own 
little circle at the prayer-meeting, — doing good 
in some sphere, however humble, but make it 
our own. We love the old clock none the less 
that it has kept in its own corner for seventy 
years. 

" One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er : 
I'm nearer my home in heaven to-day 
Than ever I've been before ! 



240 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

Nearer my Father's house. 

Where the many mansions be. 
Nearer the great white throne. 

Nearer the jasper sea. 

Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down, "m 

Nearer leaving my cross. 

Nearer wearing my crown. 

But lying darkly between. 

Winding down through the night, 
Is that dim and unknown stream 

Which leads at last to light. 

Father \ perfect my trust, 

Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
Let me feel as if I trod 

The shore of the river Death. 

For even now my feet 

May stand upon its brink ; 
I may be nearer my home. 

Nearer now, than I think ! " 



THE END. 



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